by Tamara Leigh
“Why would someone paint over her?”
“She was never completed.” He pointed to a gap in the scenery which revealed an outlined portion of a gown’s bodice, the only color that of the red rose pinned to it. “Since the portrait would have been deemed useless in its unfinished state, the landscape was painted over it, a not uncommon practice with canvases never completed or deemed inadequate.”
“Aren’t you curious about what, exactly, she looks like?”
“Always.”
“Then why not restore the portrait?”
“It’s been attempted, but the landscape gives up only what it wishes, when it wishes.”
“As if it guards a secret, hmm?” She reached and touched the heavy, carved frame. “I wonder why it wasn’t finished.”
He considered the violet eyes staring out from the canvas and, as he had done since first they were revealed, questioned if they had truly been that rare color or but a gift from the painter. “If it is Catherine Algernon, her sudden death would account for that.”
Aryn looked across her shoulder. “How did she die?”
He smiled. “You would know were you English,” he said, though the truth was that the legend of Catherine Algernon had faded long ago. Only the generations of Morrows kept it alive.
“Well, since I’m thoroughly American, you’ll have to enlighten me.”
He loved her sparkling blue eyes, one of many things that had first attracted him to her.
“Was she a significant figure, Collier?”
He braced an arm on the mantel. “No, it was her death that put her name on men’s lips.”
“Which brings us back to how she died.”
“Have you heard of the Wars of the Roses—the House of Lancaster against the House of York?”
She wrinkled her nose. “Sounds familiar, but history and I have never been on the best of terms.”
It had been the same for Collier until that eventful day when the lady of legend first revealed herself. Thereafter, he had found his history lessons of greater interest, especially those covering the medieval and Renaissance periods. Years later, Winton Morrow’s will directed that the portrait he had come to resent for Collier’s fixation on it be given to his youngest son. Though it appeared that in this he had done right by Collier, when the rest of the will was read, the gift had felt like a slap in the face. Because it had been.
“What is it, Collier?”
He cleared his throat and, finding his place in the conversation, said, “The Wars of the Roses was a civil war waged for the throne of England. Catherine Algernon supported the Lancasters”—he indicated the red rose—“whereas the Morrows supported the Yorks whose badge was the white rose.”
After a hesitation that told she was troubled by his lapse, she said, “Hence, the Wars of the Roses.”
“Yes, though it wasn’t called that at the time, and the conflict occurred well before the Lancasters took the red rose as their own badge. In 1461, the Yorkists overthrew King Henry the sixth and installed Edward the fourth on the throne. In an attempt to subdue the northern barons who continued to support Henry, Edward sent a man named Montagu to besiege their castles. There was resistance, but eventually surrender. Edward’s policy being one of conciliation, he restored the castles to their Lancastrian lords. But in 1464, they revolted again with the same result. Among the last to fall was Strivling Castle. Catherine died in the final engagement.”
“Go on.”
“Legend is that following the death of Lord Somerton and his son—the latter being Catherine’s betrothed—the lady took control of the castle’s defenses.”
Aryn’s smile widened.
“Let me guess. This bit of history you like.”
“Of course. It’s nice to know not all damsels were in distress. Continue.”
“Montagu vowed that whoever succeeded in opening Strivling would be awarded the castle. Being a landless knight, my ancestor—Edmund Morrow—accepted the challenge. Unfortunately, he and the others who sought to win the castle were defeated, and those not killed were imprisoned. The day after Edmund’s capture, he led an escape from the dungeon. He and his followers had just taken the winch room when Catherine—”
“Winch room?”
“It’s where the winches that control the portcullis and drawbridge are located.” He touched the blue-black hilt of the weapon on the mantel. “Catherine defended it with this sword.”
Aryn gasped. “She used that?”
“She did, but though she had the passion for fighting, she lacked the skill and strength. The sword was turned on her and she was slain.”
“Was it Edmund who killed her?”
“No. The man’s name was Walther, a mercenary knight the same as my ancestor. When Catherine cut his sword arm, he killed her.”
“Chivalrous!” Outrage leapt from Aryn’s eyes. “Her life for a few drops of blood.”
He chuckled. “I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but regardless of how your Hollywood portrays knights, chivalry was often forgotten when there was plunder to be had and blood to be shed—especially when a man’s pride was trounced as Catherine trounced Walther’s.”
Aryn harrumphed, slid a finger down the blade.
“Careful. It may not be as sharp as the day it last drew blood, but it will cut you.”
She turned her eyes on him. “So with Catherine dead, her enemy was let in and your ancestor awarded Strivling Castle.”
“Actually, Edmund’s reward was even greater. He was granted the entirety of the barony of Highchester, Strivling being the most prized of its three castles.”
“Impressive. But what of that pig, Walther?”
“Edmund awarded him charge of one of the lesser castles and, thereafter, he fell into obscurity.”
“Not soon enough for my liking.”
He grinned. “It’s over five hundred years in the past. Nothing to be done about it now.” He pulled Aryn toward him.
Abandoning indignation, she wound her arms around him, and he kissed her until she drew back a space. “I like what you do to me,” she said in that sensual, raspy voice of hers. “Too much.”
He groaned. “Meaning stop.”
Running fingers over his stubbled jaw, she said, “’Fraid so,” and nodded at the bed. “Dangerous.”
Beautifully dangerous, he silently amended and stepped back.
“I want to be close to you, too, Collier, but…”
That faith of hers he ought to hate but couldn’t, it being too much a part of her—though he had proven it could be scaled the night he had seduced her. “I know,” he said.
She caught his hand and pushed her fingers through his. “I love you.”
He wasn’t as uncomfortable with her declaration as he’d been the first time he had heard it. However, he wasn’t ready to return the sentiment. But he would have to soon, there being no way around it if he was to secure her yes—the prerequisite for sliding a ring on her finger.
He gave her a brief kiss. “Let’s get you settled in, then we’ll have a candlelit supper.”
Her smile wavered, but she firmed it up. “I’d like that.”
“Your mind’s elsewhere.” Aryn glanced up at Collier where she sat with his arm around her in the library.
She had been silent so long he had begun to think she slept—prayed she did. But having little practice at prayer since his father had deemed his sons’ church attendance a waste of time, he supposed he couldn’t fault God for not doing him a favor. Of course, the motive for wanting her to drift off might be more the cause of an unanswered prayer than his lack of practice.
She shifted on the sofa to face him and laid a hand on his chest. “Collier?”
Lest she feel the erratic beat of his heart, he clasped her fingers and set them on his thigh. “Elsewhere? What makes you think my mind isn’t on you?”
Firelight touched her wry smile. “It’s pretty obvious when your mind is on me, and it isn’t. So my guess is that James is you
r elsewhere.”
Diverting the tension from his hand on hers to his jaw, he set his teeth. The strain of keeping his emotions and pain in check was exhausting. Aryn had asked him to stay while she unpacked, next they had prepared supper and lingered over their meal, then tea in the library and talk. Hours of talk. Now approaching midnight, still he was denied the relief he had vowed he wouldn’t seek until she slept.
Almost feeling as if he were going through withdrawal again—yawning and perspiring, flesh peaking in goose bumps, muscles twitching—he wondered how much more he could endure.
“I guessed right about James, didn’t I?” she said.
He sighed. “Forgive me for being preoccupied. I had a poor start to my day.”
She raised her eyebrows. “But it got better, I hope?”
The pain in his ribs joining that in his neck and lower back, he said, “It did.”
“Whew!” She blew a breath up her face.
“Since we have an early start tomorrow to show you the sights of London, we ought to get to bed.” He pulled his arm from around her.
“It doesn’t have to be an early start, and since I’m not tired and you seem fairly awake”—she shrugged—“you could tell me why I have yet to be alone with you.”
Get it over with, he told himself and sat back. “I lost a property to my brother—Strivling Castle.”
She drew a sharp breath. “You didn’t tell me you had a chance to purchase it.”
He felt her hurt. But it was business, nothing to do with their relationship. “A chance, and that’s all.” He flexed his shoulder.
After some moments, during which he sensed she swept her hurt behind her, she said, “I’m sorry. I’m sure it meant a lot to you. What do you think James will do with it?”
Trying to move his mind from the pain shooting shoulder to hip, he said, “He plans to take up residence there.”
Aryn made a sound of approval. “It could be worse. He might have wanted to transform it into one of those tourist-y castle hotels.”
Her words rattled him, especially since his brother’s decision to maintain it as a private residence was a strong factor in his acquisition. So had Collier been wrong in thinking to carry out their father’s plans for Strivling?
No. The maintenance of something that immense and old was exorbitant. If James didn’t want to bankrupt himself, he would have to sell or develop it.
“It’s midnight,” he said.
“All right.” She pushed up off the sofa.
He rose beside her, took her elbow, and led her from the library and up the stairs.
At the door to her bedroom, she turned to him. “I love you,” she said and levered onto her toes and kissed him. When she sat back on her heels, she was frowning. “You feel warm. Are you coming down with something?”
Warm, and yet so cold. Forcing a light tone, he said, “A combination of sitting before a fire for hours and being in the company of a desirable woman.”
She rolled her eyes. “Good night.”
Now, his pain said as she closed the door. Two. No more than three.
He pressed a hand to his pocket. Empty. But he knew where to find it. Distracted by the vial while he and Aryn prepared supper, he had slipped it in a drawer.
He started back toward the stairs. And halted. He was in pain, but less so than earlier. If he could sleep through it, he would be that much closer to beating this thing.
One, then, the pain bargained. No more than two.
One was reasonable. And didn’t slowly weaning one’s self offer a better chance of success than going cold turkey?
He growled, turned on his heel, and strode to his bedroom where he removed only his shoes before stretching out on top of the covers.
Staring at the ceiling, he forced his thoughts to phone calls that needed to be made first thing in the morning…the day he would spend with Aryn…anything other than what called more loudly with each passing minute. But sixty of those minutes later, he was no nearer sleep.
He cursed, sat up, and went belowstairs.
CHAPTER TWO
Something skidded across his desk. Dropped to the floor.
His solicitor’s voice on the other end of the line reduced to white noise, Collier stared at the vial whose contents had spilled across the carpet, then swiveled his chair around.
Aryn stood in the doorway, eyes wide, lips compressed.
“I’ll call you back, Will.” He ended the call.
Aryn swallowed loudly enough to be heard across the room. “I forgot my shampoo and thought I would borrow yours.” She pointed to the pills. “Surprise.”
Silently cursing himself for leaving the vial on his bathroom counter after downing one last night and two this morning, he waited.
“You lied to me, Collier. You said you were off them.”
He could lie again, but he wouldn’t. She would just have to understand. He pushed his chair back and stood. “I was off them.”
“But?”
“I needed them again.”
“Strivling?”
Though he knew she sought more than confirmation, that was all he could give. “Yes.”
She swung away.
“Aryn!”
“I’m leaving.”
Not just leaving. Walking out of his life. “Stay.” His voice was so choked he wasn’t sure it was his.
When she turned back, her eyes brimmed. “I can’t.”
He jerked his head at the pills. “They have nothing to do with you.”
Laughter caused her tears to spill. “That’s the problem. Those things shut me out. Not that I wasn’t out before, but I was finding you under all those layers. But you don’t want to be found. You don’t want anyone that near.”
Pride kicking and screaming all the way, he said, “I want you.”
“Want me but don’t trust me.”
“Of course I do.” A pitifully automatic response. He didn’t trust women—not since his mother had walked out on her tyrannical husband without a glance back at the sons she left behind.
“No, you don’t. If you did, you would have told me about Strivling.”
“We’ve discussed this before. It’s never a good idea to mix business with personal.”
“Do you love me, Collier? And if you do, can you say it?”
Did he love her? Was that what moved through him even in her absence—when he had only the memory of her? “I want to marry you, Aryn. I’m ready.” There. That ought to be enough.
She blinked away her surprise. “What about love?”
Once more rejecting the ease of a lie, he opened the center desk drawer. “I want to marry you,” he repeated and reached for the little box. Only to pull his hand back. This was not how he had envisioned his proposal. Far from romantic—worse, desperate.
“You do love me,” she said. “You just can’t see it past those pills and the drive to outdo your brother.”
He eased the drawer closed. “If you believe that, why are you leaving?”
“Because I’m not supposed to have to tell you what you feel.” She drew a shaky breath and started toward him.
He came around the desk, but though he longed to take her in his arms, he knew that wasn’t what she wanted.
She leaned up and kissed his cheek. “Goodbye, Collier.” Then she was gone.
He was tempted to go after her and tell her he loved her if that was what it took to keep her here, but he turned to the window. A quarter hour later, he watched her duck into a cab.
As the car wound down the street, he assured himself he would get her back. All Aryn needed was time. All he needed was a way out from under the pills beneath his feet.
Staring into the bank of clouds the plane rose through, Aryn tried to gulp down the lump in her throat, but it wouldn’t be dislodged.
With a muffled a sob, she turned to the window and let the tears make a mess of her. She cried for the day she met Collier, the one night they made love, his continued pursuit of her though she re
fused to repeat the mistake of falling into bed, and a hundred other remembrances of the man she loved. Then she cried for the climbing accident that had been the beginning of the end of them.
The large dosages of painkillers prescribed to ease his suffering had caused changes in his personality—so marked that, six months following his accident, she had given the ultimatum that if he didn’t break his dependence on pills, their relationship was over. Where he had gone wrong was in believing he could handle the withdrawal without professional help.
Chest tightening, she snatched her purse from the floor and rummaged through it. Where was it? In a zippered pocket? Her cosmetics bag? What if she’d packed it in her suitcase? Beginning to cough, she dug deeper and thanked God when her fingers closed around the cylinder.
Relieved she hadn’t misplaced it again, she put her mouth around the inhaler and dispensed the metered dose. Before long, it was as if the asthma attack had never been. But Collier had been.
Hurting so much she wanted to weep aloud, she closed her eyes.
“It will all work out, dear,” said the older woman beside her.
If only… But her battle for Collier was lost as surely as Catherine Algernon’s battle against the Yorkists. Perhaps in another time and another place, but not now, not here.
“Another time, another place,” the woman said.
Aryn caught her breath, and after a glance at the hand on her shoulder she had not felt, peered into a softly wrinkled face. Over the matron’s brow fell a dark lock of hair that contrasted with the silver crowning her head. Beneath it, eyes glittered like moonlight on snow and lips curved sweetly.
Aryn stared at her until the woman turned her face away and closed her eyes to settle in for a nap.
Looking out the window again, trying to see beyond the clouds, Aryn silently lamented, Lord, if only Collier hadn’t taken that fall. If only he had that day to live over…
CHAPTER THREE
It was meaningless to shout aloud his pain and grief—would ever be meaningless. What had been and now was could not be changed. Or so Collier tried to convince himself as he struggled to contain feelings that made his head pound, eyes burn, and muscles quake.
