Secrets

by Brenda Joyce

  If she we­ren't James's wo­man, it wo­uldn't ha­ve to be a mar­ri­age in na­me only. He was ag­hast when he re­ali­zed how en­ti­cing the idea of a re­al mar­ri­age co­uld be. But she was James's wo­man, and if he co­uld get her to ac­cept him, it wo­uld ne­ver be such a uni­on. Which bro­ught him back to the star­ting ga­te. How in hell co­uld he per­su­ade her to ag­ree to a mar­ri­age? Be­ca­use he co­uld not ta­ke no for an an­s­wer.

  Cle­arly, this ti­me Rick was right. He wo­uld ha­ve to for­get his pri­de and do the un­t­hin­kab­le, he wo­uld ha­ve to co­urt her. But the prob­lem was, he didn't ha­ve the slig­h­test idea how a man went co­ur­ting. Whi­le she, un­do­ub­tedly, had be­en co­ur­ted very tho­ro­ughly by his brot­her just last sum­mer.

  Re­gi­na fo­und that wal­king was much easi­er the next mor­ning. A full day of bed rest had do­ne won­ders for her en­ti­re body, for that mat­ter. And she had pur­po­se­ful­ly spent the day in her ro­om, not wan­ting to con­f­ront any of the fa­mily, not wan­ting to con­f­ront Sla­de, in or­der to at­ta­in the rest and se­re­nity she so badly ne­eded.

  Her mind felt much cle­arer to­day, too. The cob­webs of con­fu­si­on and in­de­ci­si­on we­re go­ne. She had ma­de the de­ci­si­on to stay at Mi­ra­mar, co­me what may. And she had do­ne so with Rick's en­co­ura­ge­ment and bles­sing. Now that her de­par­tu­re from Mi­ra­mar did not lo­om an­y­w­he­re on the ho­ri­zon, she was ac­tu­al­ly che­er­ful. She told her­self it was be­ca­use she had now­he­re el­se to go, and wo­uld not anal­y­ze her emo­ti­ons any fur­t­her.

  Her cur­rent sta­te of am­ne­sia no lon­ger dis­ma­yed her. In fact, re­mem­be­ring might bring mo­re prob­lems in­to her li­fe than it wo­uld sol­ve. She cer­ta­inly did not want to re­ga­in her me­mory to find that she had lo­ved James madly, not when she co­uld not ke­ep her mind from wan­de­ring to Sla­de. Nor did she want to re­mem­ber the tra­uma of the tra­in rob­bery. She felt strong eno­ugh now to ac­cept her am­ne­sia for as long as ne­ces­sary-fo­re­ver, if ne­ed be.

  And she blit­hely re­fu­sed to think of whe­re she might be he­ading-of the des­tiny that awa­ited her if she did not le­ave Mi­ra­mar.

  At mid-mor­ning she en­te­red the di­ning ro­om and tho­ugh it was empty, one pla­ce was set the­re, un­do­ub­tedly for her. Re­gi­na mo­ved to ta­ke her se­at. She had just sunk down in­to it and was abo­ut to ring the small sil­ver bell to alert the ser­vants to her pre­sen­ce when a rus­t­ling mo­ve­ment ca­ught her at­ten­ti­on. She had tho­ught she was alo­ne, but Sla­de sto­od in the sha­dows at the far si­de of the ro­om, which, be­ing win­dow­less, was clo­aked in dar­k­ness. He was wat­c­hing her. At the sight of him she be­ca­me still and stran­gely ex­pec­tant.

  He ca­me for­ward, le­aving the glo­om be­hind. She won­de­red if he had be­en wa­iting for her. She re­gar­ded him in­tently, se­ar­c­hing an­xi­o­usly for a clue to his dis­po­si­ti­on. Yes­ter­day he had wan­ted her to le­ave and he had not be­en happy that she had sta­yed. To­day his fa­ce was im­pas­si­ve.

  "Go­od mor­ning," he sa­id. He wasn't smi­ling. His to­ne was as gu­ar­dedly ne­ut­ral as his ex­p­res­si­on. He slip­ped in­to the cha­ir op­po­si­te hers.

  "Go­od mor­ning." She no­ti­ced that his ha­ir ap­pe­ared to be fin­ger-com­bed. And he had left the first three but­tons of his fa­ded red shirt open, ex­po­sing a swath of swarthy skin on his chest. The skin the­re was mo­ist- it was al­re­ady a warm day. Then she re­ali­zed that he was in­s­pec­ting her pre­ci­sely the sa­me way that she was in­s­pec­ting him. She lif­ted her glan­ce qu­ickly, as qu­ickly as her he­art now be­at.

  He shif­ted. "Fe­eling bet­ter to­day?"

  "Yes, thank you."

  "You lo­ok…" he he­si­ta­ted. "You lo­ok bet­ter."

  "I beg yo­ur par­don?"

  "You lo­ok bet­ter," he re­pe­ated. "A go­od night’s rest…" His words tra­iled off. He flus­hed.

  Re­gi­na stra­ig­h­te­ned and very ca­uti­o­usly sa­id, "I did ha­ve a go­od night's rest. Thank you." What was go­ing on? Cle­arly he had be­en wa­iting for her. But why was he at­tem­p­ting to ma­ke po­li­te con­ver­sa­ti­on with her? She ex­pec­ted an at­tack for sta­ying, if an­y­t­hing. This sort of in­te­rac­ti­on was out of cha­rac­ter; if she didn't know bet­ter, she wo­uld think that he was trying to flat­ter her.

  A dull-red co­lor was de­fi­ni­tely cre­eping up his che­ek­bo­nes. "You lo­ok go­od to­day, Eli­za­beth."

  She co­uld not ha­ve he­ard his low, mut­te­red words cor­rectly. "Excu­se me?"

  His eyes fi­nal­ly fo­und hers. They we­re bright. "You lo­ok go­od to­day. You lo­ok… very pretty." His to­ne had be­co­me in­ten­se, in­ti­ma­te.

  Re­gi­na had pic­ked up her nap­kin and now it fell from her numb fin­gers and flut­te­red to the flo­or. Sla­de lo­oked away. He was a bril­li­ant sha­de of red. She re­ali­zed he had just gi­ven her a com­p­li­ment. A very sin­ce­re com­p­li­ment. Ple­asu­re flo­oded her. Her own che­eks flus­hed brightly pink.

  At that mo­ment a pla­te of fo­od was plun­ked down on the tab­le in front of Re­gi­na. She star­ted. Her glan­ce qu­ickly met Lu­an­da's. The ma­id's eyes we­re dark. Com­p­re­hen­si­on ro­se qu­ickly. The po­or girl had so­me kind of ten­d­re for Sla­de. Re­gi­na felt sorry for her, be­ca­use no mat­ter how ca­su­al the si­tu­ati­on might ap­pe­ar at Mi­ra­mar, Sla­de was the son and he­ir, and men of his sta­ti­on did not con­des­cend to no­ti­ce ser­ving girls.

  "Ple­ase bring me so­me cof­fee," Sla­de sa­id to her.

  "May­be you sho­uld get it yo­ur­self," Lu­cin­da re­tor­ted.

  All the sympathy that Re­gi­na had felt for her fled ab­ruptly. She was shoc­ked.

  Sla­de lo­oked up at Lu­cin­da sharply.

  Lu­cin­da tur­ned on her he­el and left the ro­om. Re­gi­na sta­red af­ter her.

  Sla­de was grim. "She was born in Pa­so Rob­les and has wor­ked he­re her en­ti­re li­fe, li­ke her pa­rents be­fo­re her. In a way she's a part of this fa­mily-but that do­esn't gi­ve her spe­ci­al rights."

  "No, it cer­ta­inly do­es not," Re­gi­na ag­re­ed. "I think- I think she's ta­ken with you."

  "Ye­ah, well, she's no mo­re ta­ken with me than she is with any ot­her yo­ung, strong ma­le aro­und he­re." Sla­de lo­oked her di­rectly in the eye. "Eat yo­ur pan­ca­kes be­fo­re they get cold," he in­s­t­ruc­ted.

  The­ir ga­zes met aga­in and held. Re­gi­na did not pick up her fork. She no lon­ger tho­ught abo­ut the ma­id. Sla­de's glan­ce was so in­ten­se it was prac­ti­cal­ly un­ner­ving. He wan­ted so­met­hing from her, des­pe­ra­tely, but she did not know what.

  "E­at," he sa­id aga­in. Then he smi­led slightly. "Jo­jo ma­kes the best fla­pj­acks bet­we­en he­re and the Big Sur. Be­li­eve me, I know." His to­ne was af­fec­ti­ona­te.

  She he­ard the fon­d­ness in his vo­ice and won­de­red at it. She had met the warm, fri­endly ho­use­ke­eper yes­ter­day. But how co­uld she eat now? Sla­de had pur­po­se­ful­ly jo­ined her at the tab­le, he had so­ught her out. And he had not at­tac­ked her for sta­ying, nor was he be­ing co­ol, in­dif­fe­rent, or moc­king. To the con­t­rary, he was be­ing ple­asant, and, as un­p­rac­ti­ced at it as he was, he had com­p­li­men­ted her. She was cer­ta­in his com­p­li­ments to la­di­es we­re ra­re, ma­king his even mo­re pre­ci­o­us. "You call Josep­hi­ne 'Jo­jo'?"

  His lips cur­ved slightly. "A han­go­ver from chil­d­ho­od."

  She in­s­tantly ima­gi­ned Sla­de as a child. He wo­uld ha­ve be­en be­a­uti­ful as a boy, al­most pretty. She ima­gi­ned he wo­uld ha­ve be­en the kind of boy to al­ways be in tro­ub­le. "She's be­en he­re sin­ce you we­re a child?"

 
; "Sin­ce I was born." He he­si­ta­ted, the smi­le go­ne. "She ra­ised me. Me and James."

  Re­gi­na he­si­ta­ted, too. She co­uld only as­su­me that the boys' mot­her had di­ed. "I'm sorry."

  He re­gar­ded her. "For what?"

  "That you did not ha­ve yo­ur mot­her to ra­ise you."

  "Don't be." He wa­ved in­dif­fe­rently. "She was a tramp."

  Re­gi­na gas­ped. "Sla­de!"

  His ex­p­res­si­on was set in sto­ne. "She didn't die, which is what I can see you're thin­king. She ran off, aban­do­ning me, le­aving Rick. She was a sel­fish, dis­ho­no­rab­le wo­man."

  Re­gi­na was so shoc­ked she co­uld not spe­ak for a mo­ment, al­t­ho­ugh she cer­ta­inly ag­re­ed with his as­ses­sment of his mot­her. And her he­art bro­ke for him. How co­uld a mot­her aban­don her own child? "How… how old we­re you?"

  "Three months."

  She al­most cri­ed. "And James?"

  "You don't un­der­s­tand. James and I are-we­re-half-brot­hers. His mot­her di­ed bir­t­hing him. But that put us both in the sa­me bo­at, with Jo­jo. She was plenty of mot­her to us both." Then he smi­led unex­pec­tedly. "She's still not af­ra­id to box my ears."

  Re­gi­na smi­led, too, but te­ars still lur­ked clo­se to the sur­fa­ce. She had the ur­ge to ta­ke Sla­de in her arms as if he we­re still a child, to com­fort him in a mot­herly way. Yet he was no small boy to be mot­he­red by her, and she fol­ded her hands in her lap.

  "You're not eating," he re­mar­ked.

  "I'm not very hungry."

  He he­si­ta­ted. "You want to ta­ke a dri­ve? May­be down to the bat­h­ho­use in Pa­so Rob­les?"

  She was still. If she did not know bet­ter, she wo­uld think that this man was co­ur­ting her. Of co­ur­se, that was im­pos­sib­le. She had be­en en­ga­ged to his brot­her. Not only had she be­en en­ga­ged to James, yes­ter­day Sla­de had wan­ted her to le­ave his ho­me, and he had be­en ada­mant abo­ut it. "That might be ni­ce," she sa­id slowly. Then: "You aren't angry with me?"

  "Why wo­uld I be angry with you?" he as­ked. His at­tem­p­ted smi­le fell stran­gely flat. The­re was a vast dif­fe­ren­ce bet­we­en his ex­p­res­si­on now and the ge­nu­ine smi­le he had shown her ear­li­er. Sla­de had no fa­ca­des.

  "Be­ca­use I didn't le­ave yes­ter­day." Re­gi­na trem­b­led. "Yes­ter­day you wan­ted me to le­ave."

  "Yes­ter­day's not to­day." He he­si­ta­ted. "Yes­ter­day what had hap­pe­ned bet­we­en us was too fresh." His eyes swer­ved to hers, col­li­ded with hers.

  She was re­mem­be­ring exactly what he was ob­vi­o­usly re­mem­be­ring, be­ing half-na­ked, clad in his shirt, and in his arms. Too cle­arly, she co­uld fe­el the thick web of de­si­re that had en­s­na­red them that night, as if it we­re en­s­na­ring them aga­in. And in fact, it was. Her own body told her that, as did the lo­ok in his eyes.

  She swal­lo­wed hard. Her smi­le was too bril­li­ant, her to­ne overly light. "You are fo­re­ver my res­cu­er. Do you ma­ke a ha­bit of res­cu­ing dam­sels in dis­t­ress?" She wan­ted to chan­ge the dan­ge­ro­us di­rec­ti­on that both of the­ir tho­ughts had too qu­ickly ve­ered in. She was al­most cer­ta­in that his re­fe­ren­ce was de­li­be­ra­te, that he wan­ted her to re­mem­ber every de­ta­il of that night.

  "You know I don't." He wo­uld not buy in­to her ca­su­al] flir­ta­ti­on. "Only you. If s only you I se­em to be res­cu­ing." His eyes dar­ke­ned.

  Re­gi­na ma­na­ged to swal­low the lump that had ri­sen in her thro­at. "You are angry," she sa­id, her vo­ice sur­p­ri­singly ste­ady. "You wo­uld pre­fer that I le­ave."

  He de­ni­ed it with a sha­ke of his he­ad, but he re­fu­sed to me­et her glan­ce. "I didn't li­ke the idea of you tra­ve­ling alo­ne, or be­ing alo­ne at the ho­tel, from the start. I still don't li­ke it."

  Re­gi­na pic­ked up her fork. She kept her ex­p­res­si­on ca­re­ful­ly blank to hi­de her un­cer­ta­inty. Her he­art wan­ted to le­ap and em­b­ra­ce his words, but she did not qu­ite be­li­eve him. "I am go­ing to stay for a whi­le," she sa­id, spe­aring a pi­ece of ba­con, al­so avo­iding his ga­ze. "I ne­ed to rest af­ter the tra­in rob­bery and my fo­olish at­tempt to walk to town."

  "Go­od." Aga­in he he­si­ta­ted. His ga­ze slid to the tab­le,] over it, and up one wall. An­y­w­he­re but at her. His jaw was tight. "I want you to stay."

  Re­gi­na fro­ze.

  Ca­uti­o­usly he lo­oked at her.

  His words we­re too go­od to be true. And he fa­iled to lo­ok her in the eye. In the pre­ci­se in­s­tant that she re­ali­zed he was ma­ni­pu­la­ting her, for wha­te­ver re­ason, her ple­asu­re cras­hed. It cras­hed hard at her fe­et, the way a pi­ne tree might when fel­led with a log­ger's let­hal axe. It cras­hed so hard it left her rob­bed of her bre­ath.

  He had be­en abo­ut to to­uch her hand. Se­e­ing her ex­p­res­si­on, he wit­h­d­rew it.

  "What are you do­ing? Why are you sa­ying so­met­hing you don't me­an?"

  He grip­ped the tab­le hard. He didn't ra­ise his he­ad. "I do me­an it, dam­mit."

  The hurt that stab­bed her was in­ten­se. She sho­uld ha­ve known that he was be­ing less than ho­nest. It was cer­ta­inly ob­vi­o­us now that he was not be­ing ho­nest. He co­uld not even lo­ok at her. She sprang to her fe­et.

  "Eli­za­beth…"

  She cut off his pro­test. "You must think me a fo­ol!"

  "I don't think you're a fo­ol." He was stan­ding, too.

  "You are a very po­or li­ar."

  His fa­ce was a mask, ex­cept for his in­ten­se eyes. "I do want you to stay," he ma­na­ged.

  "For a mo­ment I be­li­eved you," Re­gi­na qu­ave­red. "For a mo­ment I tho­ught you didn't mind my sta­ying, that you had a chan­ge of he­art. That sin­ce the ot­her night you… li­ked me."

  "I do ha­ve a chan­ge of he­art," he sa­id grimly. "I do… li­ke you."

  "So­me­how I don't think so!" Re­gi­na cri­ed. Her an­ger ro­se hotly, sa­ving her. "Was this so­me kind of a ga­me? An amu­se­ment, per­haps? To toy with me and my fe­elings? Or do you want my in­he­ri­tan­ce now, too? Is that what this is all abo­ut? Are you go­ing to of­fer me mar­ri­age now?"

  "Dam­mit," Sla­de sa­id an­g­rily. "Dam­mit!"

  Fu­ri­o­us, Re­gi­na whir­led. But Sla­de was very fast. He ca­ught her by the sho­ul­der be­fo­re she had left the ro­om, spin­ning her aro­und to fa­ce him. He ap­pe­ared des­pe­ra­te. "This isn't a ga­me. You're mis­ta­ken. Lo­ok,

  Eli­za­beth, we can be fri­ends. We are fri­ends. That's all. I tho­ught abo­ut it and re­ali­zed that-"

  "We are not fri­ends! You wo­uldn't know the me­aning of the word fri­en­d­s­hip if a dic­ti­onary we­re open and sta­ring you in the fa­ce!" Re­gi­na cri­ed. "Fri­ends don't de­ce­ive one anot­her! Fri­ends don't lie to one anot­her! You're lying to my fa­ce and do­ing a blas­ted po­or job of it!"

  "Eli­za­beth…"

  "No!" she cri­ed fu­ri­o­usly. "Don't say anot­her blo­ody word!" She tur­ned, re­ali­zing she was crying, and rus­hed in­to the co­ur­t­yard.

  What a fo­ol she was for sta­ying af­ter all. She was much too vul­ne­rab­le as far as Sla­de was con­cer­ned, and she was frig­h­te­ned to re­ali­ze it. She was hal­f­way ac­ross the co­ur­t­yard when she re­ali­zed he was fol­lo­wing her. Fran­ti­cal­ly she bro­ke in­to a run. So did he. Re­gi­na wren­c­hed open the do­ors to her ro­om and tur­ned to slam them shut. Sla­de bar­ged thro­ugh them. Ac­ci­den­tal­ly Re­gi­na was flung bac­k­ward and on­to the flo­or.

  The flo­or was oak, but the ho­mes­pun rug the­re bro­ke her fall, pre­ven­ting it from be­ing wor­se. She lan­ded on her bac­k­si­de and, af­ter the fall from the hor­se, it hurt. For a mo­ment she lay s
till on her back, ne­arly stun­ned. Then she be­ca­me awa­re of him kne­eling be­si­de her on one knee, the ot­her al­most le­vel with her eyes. The­re was a rent in the de­nim fab­ric the­re.

  His hands clo­sed on her sho­ul­ders. "Jesus! Are you all right?"

  "Don't to­uch me," she whis­pe­red. His thighs fil­led the legs of his pants com­p­le­tely. He wasn't an overly lar­ge man, but he was all mus­c­le and so much big­ger than she her­self. Using her hands, she skid­ded back a few in­c­hes on her fanny, put­ting a sa­fer dis­tan­ce bet­we­en them.

  He didn't mo­ve. When she lif­ted her ga­ze he was re­gar­ding her with bla­zing eyes. "I'm sorry," he sa­id. "I apo­lo­gi­ze. I'm sorry."

  He me­ant it. She saw it, he­ard it. "What are you sorry for, Sla­de?"

  "For bar­ging in, for knoc­king you down li­ke I did. For ever­y­t­hing. I don't want to hurt you, Eli­za­beth."

  She didn't mo­ve. His re­gard held hers. His palms still grip­ped her sho­ul­ders. She tri­ed to fat­hom if his last words me­ant what she tho­ught they did-what she ho­ped they did-that he had not me­ant to hurt her fe­elings the way that he had.