Valley of the Vapours (The Americana Series Book 4)

by Janet Dailey

  Adding a touch of light blue shadow to intensify the green of her eyes, Tisha stepped back from the mirror to stare at her reflection. Tension had produced a starry, ethereal quality in her face. Nerves had knotted her stomach until she wanted to press her hands against it to relieve the pain. Subconsciously she knew the dress was particularly flattering to her while the rest of her thoughts kept praying that Roarke could come up with a solution for their latest crisis.

  When she walked into the living-room, she only half noticed her father had changed out of his sports clothes into a suit and that Blanche was there looking very chic in a red suit. An absent smile curved her mouth when her father took her hand and carried it to his lips.

  "You look beautiful, Patricia," he said with intense sincerity.

  She nodded at his compliment and replied with the thought that was uppermost in her mind, "We'd better hurry or we'll be late." She was driven by the compulsion to see Roarke as quickly as possible.

  Yet the short journey into Hot Springs seemed to take forever. Small talk would have made it impossible, but luckily neither her father nor Blanche commented on her silence.

  Her legs threatened not to support as she walked beside her father into the empty vestibule of the church. She glanced anxiously around for Roarke, knowing he was here somewhere because she had seen his car outside. Tisha didn't notice her father turn to Blanche and take something from her. When he walked over to her and gently draped a lace scarf over her hair, she looked at him impatiently.

  "I don't need to wear anything over my head, do I?" she protested.

  "You should have something," he insisted quietly, wrapping the long tails around her neck and over her shoulder.

  He took her hand and tucked it under his arm, winking at her in reassurance. The doors to the interior of the church were opened and she willingly fell in step with him as he walked towards it. She would rather have seen Roarke before the rehearsal, she thought nervously. They had only taken two short steps into the aisle itself when she saw Roarke standing at the altar waiting with the minister. The look in his eyes nearly buckled her knees. Her fingers curled into her father's arm as she stared at his solemn expression.

  "This…" Panic nearly robbed her of her voice. "This isn't a rehearsal, is it?" she whispered, making it more of a statement than a question.

  He shifted his arm so that it was supporting her waist as he kept her moving down the aisle closer to Roarke.

  "Of course not," he replied, as if she should have known it all along.

  Her wide, frightened gaze was captured by the tenderly serious light of Roarke's. There was a hint of apology in their dark depths as he accepted her trembling hand from her father. Roarke, too, encircled her waist with his arm, holding her upright when her quivering legs threatened to collapse. Her lips parted, wanting to speak, to halt the ceremony in some way, but the minister had already begun his intonation.

  "Dearly beloved, we—"

  It was too late. Tisha knew it in her heart as she listened to the words that joined her in marriage to the man beside her. With a bowed head, she repeated her vows in a barely audible voice. Only when she had uttered the last words did she look into his face. Stained glass windows intensified the gold highlights in his hair while his eyes watched the movement of her mouth as she pledged herself to him.

  The clear, resonant sound of his voice vibrated through her, removing the blindfold she had been wearing and allowing her to see the sunburst that radiated from her heart. With almost terrifying certainty, Tisha knew she was in love with Roarke. Every clamouring beat of her heart was for him.

  She not only physically belonged to him, but mentally as well. Not by any legal act, but because she wanted to be. She wanted to share his life, have his children, grow old in his arms.

  For a moment Tisha almost believed that he wanted it too, until she remembered the unwillingness he had voiced to marry her. Her father had manoeuvred them into this ceremony. Roarke didn't want to marry her. He had been forced to do so to prevent a scandal. How could any marriage survive in those circumstances? It couldn't, answering the question herself. Legally they were going to be man and wife, but it was a situation he would change at the earliest possible moment.

  If Roarke should ever guess she was in love with him? The thought struck a cold chill in her heart. He would certainly believe that she had been a part of the conspiracy to marry him. How he would hate her for that!

  She stared at the gold band he had placed on her finger. The diamond in her engagement ring sparkled with multi-coloured light beside the plain gold of her wedding ring. That was what she wanted—the rainbow and the moon—and both were equally out of reach without Roarke's love.

  "By the authority vested in me, I now pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss the bride," the minister prompted.

  Her lashes fluttered down to close her eyes. The pain inside was much too intense to be able to withstand the resignation that must be in Roarke's face as he gently turned her to face him. There was no ardour in his kiss, none of the warmth that she usually felt. His touch was cool and controlled as though he was obliged to carry out the minister's instructions.

  Numbly she heard the words of congratulations extended to Roarke and thought of the bitterness he must feel accepting them as he had accepted her, a wife he didn't want. The embrace of her father and his obvious happiness couldn't reach her soul, which seemed to have died, nor the whispered wish of her aunt that she and Roarke would be happy.

  Her hand touched the dark sleeve of his suit. She hadn't looked at him since she had realized she was in love with him, but she did so now. The face he turned towards her was serious and a little guarded.

  "Please," Tisha said hoarsely in a voice so low he had to bend down to hear her, "let's get out of here."

  "Of course," came his clipped reply.

  In seconds he had bustled her away from her father and Blanche and was escorting her down the church steps to his car. She desperately wanted to flee in the opposite direction, but she had to face him some time. Above all, she had to convince him that she didn't want to be married to him any more than he wanted to be married to her. Pride would not let her use the legal bonds of matrimony to hold him.

  "You didn't know your father had changed the wedding from tomorrow to today, did you?" Roarke said as he slid behind the wheel of the car.

  "No." she answered shortly, her voice raw with pain. "I didn't know any more than you did."

  He shot her an inquiring look before switching on the motor. "We're married now."

  "It's a mockery and you know it!" she declared bitterly.

  "What do you suggest? An early annulment?" he asked, centring his gaze on the traffic around them.

  "Surely it's the obvious solution."

  "Is it?" he returned cryptically.

  "I should never have believed you," she murmured angrily, tearing the lace scarf from her head. "If I hadn't listened to you, we wouldn't be in this mess," adding to herself that she might not have discovered that she loved him and avoided this heartbreak.

  "Do you make a habit out of crying over spilt milk?" he asked.

  "I'm not so foolish as to believe that things always turn out for the best," Tisha shot back.

  "It turns out for the best if you make it," Roarke answered calmly. "It's a case of turning disadvantage into advantage."

  "That may be true in business, but how do you turn an unwanted marriage into a wanted marriage?" she demanded.

  "That sounds like a pretty impossible task," he agreed, turning the car into the car-park of a hotel.

  "What are we doing here?" she demanded.

  His glance mocked the apprehension in her voice. "I didn't want to test your cooking. The mood you're in you would probably try to poison me. And things always look better on a full stomach."

  "I'm not hungry," she avowed, not finding any humour in his statement.

  "We'll have a drink first. Maybe some of the shock of becoming Mrs. Madison will w
ear off and your appetite will return."

  "You don't mean shock, you mean horror," Tisha snapped.

  "You see," Roarke grinned with a lifted brow, "it's already beginning. Whenever you start insulting me, I know things are back to normal."

  There wasn't any "normal" any more, Tisha thought as she watched Roarke get out of the car and walk around to open her door. There was heaven and hell with nothing in between except misery. But she could hide her love for him behind the sting of her tongue. It was the only defense she had left to keep from throwing herself at his feet and begging him to let her stay at his side forever.

  "Did Father plan our honeymoon, too?" she jeered, stepping quickly away from the hand that reached to guide her.

  "He left it up to us. I had the impression that he didn't think we would care where we were."

  A bitter laugh came shrilly from her throat. "We wouldn't—as long as we weren't together."

  "It would be a little difficult in the circumstances, don't you think?" His voice was suddenly grim as his fingers dug into her arms.

  "Why?" She paid no heed to the warning in his gaze. "We could have a modern honeymoon. You go your way and I'll go mine."

  A mask slipped over his face. "And let your husband sleep alone on his wedding night?" he clicked his tongue in mockery. "Shame on you, Red!"

  A terrifying numbness paralysed her. "Is that how you plan to take advantage of the disadvantage of our marriage? Do you intend to claim your rights?"

  "The thought occurred to me," he answered smoothly, his eyes moving possessively over her.

  "Well, you can forget it!" she declared with a rush, her whole body pulsating with a wild heat at the thought of his lovemaking.

  "You appeared to be willing last week," he reminded her. "Why this sudden attack of conscience when it would be morally permitted?"

  A crimson glow stained her face. "For as long as this marriage lasts, it will be in name only." Her voice trembled with determination.

  "Now that we're married you no longer find me attractive, is that right?"

  "No." The denial was out before she could stop it.

  "That means I still disturb you physically, then."

  "Yes…I mean no!"

  "What do you mean?" A glint of arrogant humour was in his gaze.

  "I…I mean," Tisha fought for the breath that was being denied her, "that this farcical marriage is going no farther. It's…it's a total sham!"

  "That means you don't want any Bermudan honeymoon, then."

  "No, I don't." Tisha shook her head firmly.

  "I suppose the most logical thing to do is to return to my home when we've eaten. Do you agree?" He seemed suddenly disinclined to argue with her and Tisha was glad. His sly questions were beginning to destroy her resolve not to make a further mockery of their marriage.

  "That's fine," she nodded.

  Chapter Ten

  TISHA didn't know if her appetite had really returned or whether she took such a long time over each course to prolong the inevitable moment when they would be alone. The silence between them was neither comfortable nor uneasy, broken occasionally by idle comments to avoid any building tension. After a second cup of coffee following dessert, Tisha knew she had lingered as long as possible.

  Roarke did, too. He motioned for the waitress to bring their bill. "Are you ready?" It was a polite question, since he knew the answer.

  The intimate darkness of night had descended outside with only a few stars shimmering in the distance. The moon was new, a pale sickle against a black background. And Tisha was more conscious than ever of the close confines of the sports car. Yet Roarke seemed to pay no attention to her as he silently drove through the empty country roads.

  The nervous tension that had been absent during the meal came with shaking swiftness to take hold of her as they neared his house. The lights of her aunt's house winked at her through the pines, then they were turning down the lane to Roarke's house.

  She stood nervously beside him as he unlocked the front door, catching the mocking glance he tossed at her when he opened the door and waited for her to precede him.

  "I don't want to make it a further mockery by carrying you over the threshold," he murmured.

  "Of course," she agreed tightly, stepping quickly by him into the foyer. Her memories of her last visit were all too vivid. When Roarke flicked the light on, she saw the suitcases sitting by the door and recognized them as her own. "What are these doing here?"

  "Blanche must have brought a few of your clothes up for you," he replied, without any show of surprise. "She probably thought you would want to wear something other than your wedding dress in the next couple of days." He reached down and picked up her cases. "I'll take them into the bedroom for you."

  There seemed to be nothing else to do except follow him as he entered the living-room, his supple stride carrying him unhurriedly ahead of her. A fire was blazing in the fireplace and the lights were turned down low. Tisha stopped at the bottom of the steps, her green eyes spying the magnum of champagne on ice and the two stemmed glasses on the tray beside it.

  "How did that get here?" she demanded icily. He glanced over his shoulder, his gaze following her pointing finger to the champagne. Amusement curled the corners of his mouth.

  "It looks like a gift from your father to celebrate our wedding night. There's no sense in letting it go to waste. Why don't you open it up while I put your things in the other room?"

  He didn't wait for a reply to his suggestion and resumed his course to the bedroom, the suitcases under his arm. Tisha walked stiffly to the couch, staring angrily at the wine bottle and the pair of glasses. Her imagination filled in the scene that was supposed to transpire as she and Roarke sat in front of the cosy fire, sipping champagne. She was still staring at the bottle when he walked back into the room.

  "Haven't you opened it?" he asked unnecessarily.

  "I don't know how," she swallowed nervously, avoiding the couch in favour of a chair.

  Covertly she watched as he expertly uncorked the bottle and allowed no bubbling foam to escape. He turned the glasses over and let his eyes ask the question of her.

  "I don't want any," she answered shortly.

  "Suit yourself," he shrugged, pouring a glass for himself.

  With a casualness Tisha wished she had, he removed his suit jacket and loosened his tie before settling down on the couch. When he picked up a newspaper and began leafing through it, she couldn't make up her mind if he was ignoring her deliberately or whether her presence didn't bother him at all. The last was a sharp jolt to her ego since she found him uncomfortably disturbing.

  "How can you sit there and read?" Tisha exclaimed in exasperation. "Isn't there something you can do?"

  "Like what?" He folded one side of the paper back so he could look at her.

  "Like figuring a way to end this absurd marriage!"

  "It's a bit premature for that." The newspaper was raised to block out his face.

  "Why?" she persisted.

  "We both know your father would never accept it as final if we attempted to separate tomorrow morning."

  "How long will we have to wait?" There was hardly any colour in her face as she waited for his answer.

  "A few months."

  "What happens in the meantime?" she swallowed.

  The newspaper was folded and laid on the couch beside him while he cocked his head and looked at her curiously. "I'm not sure I know what you mean."

  "I mean where will you and I be during these few months?" Her fingers were nervously twisting themselves in knots in her lap.

  "We'll be right here." An amused frown mocked her for not seeing the obvious.

  "In this house?" Despair brought her to her feet. "That's impossible!"

  "Why?"

  Her hands swept around her in a hopeless gesture. "It's so small. We'd be constantly tripping over each other."

  "I don't understand the relevance of that statement," Roarke murmured, leaning against the ba
ck of the couch and folding his arms complacently in front of him.

  "You know very well what I'm talking about," she accused angrily.

  "Are you concerned that constant contact would weaken your resolve to keep this marriage—what was that quaint phrase you used? Oh, yes, in name only?" The lines around his mouth deepened.

  "Considering the mess we're in, it's the only logical way. There would be undisputable grounds for divorce. We agreed to that!" Tisha announced in a desperate voice.

  "I know you said that's the way it was going to be, but I don't recall agreeing to it."

  His answer froze her. He was teasing her, that was all, she told herself as she searched his face to be sure she was right.

  "Will you stop making fun of me?" she muttered, biting her lip as she turned towards the fire.

  "You're too nervous," he declared. "Why don't you reconsider and have a glass of champagne?"

  The grate of ice against the bottle was followed by the sound of liquid being poured into a glass. Then Roarke was beside her holding out the partially filled glass.

  "Shall we drink a toast to the happy bride and groom?" he suggested mockingly.

  Her eyes glittered angrily as she watched him sip his own drink. His amusement at the whole situation irritated her more than his indifference.

  "I would rather drink to our imminent separation," she vowed in a low, trembling voice.

  To enforce her statement, she swallowed almost the entire contents of the glass, her fingers gripping the stem so tightly that with the slightest addition of pressure it would have snapped.

  "This is good wine. It's meant to be sipped, not gulped," he chided. Rebelliously Tisha swallowed the rest and glared at him, longing to throw the empty glass into the fireplace as a final show of determination. "Whatever you do," he murmured, correctly interpreting the gleam in her eyes, "please don't throw that glass at the fireplace. It would take you for ever to get all the splintered particles out of the carpet."