Secrets

Secrets Page 23

by Brenda Joyce

  Re­gar­d­less of what his well-hid­den fe­elings might be, the­re was no es­ca­ping the fact that she was mar­ri­ed to him now, that she was his wi­fe. He was the most com­p­li­ca­ted, and the most sen­si­ti­ve, man that she knew. He was an enig­ma, but she lo­ved him. She ga­zed openly at him, stud­ying his ex­t­ra­or­di­nary pro­fi­le, re­lis­hing the sight he ma­de. She was cer­ta­in he wo­uld al­ways ta­ke her bre­ath away. Her he­art twis­ted. An­ti­ci­pa­ti­on and ex­ci­te­ment flut­te­red wildly to li­fe in­si­de her.

  If she had to do it all over aga­in, she wo­uld.

  Rick had co­me for­ward. He hug­ged her with re­al en­t­hu­si­asm, al­most crus­hing her in his em­b­ra­ce. "Wel­co­me to the fa­mily."

  "Thank you," Re­gi­na ma­na­ged.

  But Rick had al­re­ady tur­ned and was pum­ping the jud­ge's hand. Out of the cor­ner of her eye, as Vic­to­ria ap­pro­ac­hed, she wat­c­hed Josep­hi­ne em­b­ra­ce Sla­de. He fa­vo­red her with a ru­eful smi­le. Re­gi­na stra­ined her ears. Sla­de sa­id, "Bet you tho­ught you'd ne­ver see I the day."

  "I be­en pra­yin' fo' ye­ahs to see this he­ah day," Josep­hi­ne re­tur­ned. "You gon­na be fi­ne now, swe­etie, trust ol' Jo­jo."

  Re­gi­na wis­hed she co­uld he­ar Sla­de's re­j­o­in­der, but she had no cho­ice and she tur­ned her at­ten­ti­on to Vic­to­ria. To her sur­p­ri­se, Ed­ward's mot­her was smi­ling. "Con­g­ra­tu­la­ti­ons, de­ar," Vic­to­ria sa­id, kis­sing Re­gi­na's che­ek. "Wel­co­me to the fa­mily, Eli­za­beth."

  Re­gi­na co­uld not mo­ve. Vic­to­ria's eyes glit­te­red with mirth and ut­ter com­p­re­hen­si­on. The­re was no mis­ta­king the to­ne she had used when spe­aking the na­me which Re­gi­na was using. She knew that Re­gi­na was an im­pos­ter.

  "Eli­za­beth?" she as­ked. "Is so­met­hing wrong? Are you fe­eling ill? Can I get you so­met­hing, Eli­za­beth?"

  Re­gi­na re­gar­ded her wi­de-eyed. Ed­ward's mot­her knew abo­ut her cha­ra­de. She knew. And Vic­to­ria dis­li­ked her, she had from the start. Vic­to­ria did not want her in I the fa­mily. Re­gi­na wo­uld not put it past the ot­her wo­man to do so­met­hing aw­ful, such as ex­po­se her now, in front of the jud­ge, mo­ments af­ter be­ing wed. She shud­de­red.: She co­uld not ima­gi­ne what Sla­de's re­ac­ti­on wo­uld be if he we­re told in such a way in­s­te­ad of be­ing told by Re­gi­na her­self.

  Vic­to­ria la­ug­hed. "Don't worry, de­ar, you can co­unt on me." With that enig­ma­tic thre­at-and it was a thre­at- she swept away.

  Re­gi­na clo­sed her eyes for an in­s­tant. She was swe­ating aga­in. De­ar Lord, what had she do­ne? She sho­uld ha­ve an­ti­ci­pa­ted so­me­one fin­ding out abo­ut her de­cep­ti­on and be­en pre­pa­red to han­d­le it. But she hadn't, what was Vic­to­ria go­ing to do? Re­gi­na was af­ra­id; she ex­pec­ted the worst.

  She wo­uld ha­ve to tell Sla­de so­on. Very so­on.

  But the truth was that she was af­ra­id to tell him. She had yet to think of a go­od way to do so. She wan­ted ti­me, ti­me to ha­ve him fall in lo­ve with her, so that he wo­uld be for­gi­ving when he did le­arn the truth. Mo­re im­por­tantly, on­ce he lo­ved her, she wo­uld be ab­le to tell him all of the truth-that it was her lo­ve for him which had pro­pel­led her in­to ke­eping such a sec­ret in the first pla­ce.

  Edward pa­used by her, smi­ling bro­adly. Re­gi­na had a mo­ment of se­ve­re do­ubt. She li­ked Ed­ward very much, but she was still un­su­re whet­her he knew the truth abo­ut her. In the past few days, sin­ce he had hel­ped her find the dress, she had be­gun to think her sus­pi­ci­ons we­re ro­oted in her own an­xi­ety and gu­ilt and we­re the­re­fo­re ba­se­less. Now she co­uld not help re­gar­ding him dis­t­rus­t­ful­ly. It wo­uld be very easy to con­c­lu­de that he had known abo­ut her and had sha­red his know­led­ge with his mot­her. She sta­red at him. The­re was not­hing but che­er in his spar­k­ling ga­ze. Any ot­her tho­ughts he might be ha­ving we­re ob­s­cu­red by his ob­vi­o­us ple­asu­re in to­day's event.

  "How's the be­a­uti­ful bri­de?" he as­ked, grin­ning.

  Re­gi­na wet her lips. "Fi­ne." She did not want to think that Ed­ward had, in a way, bet­ra­yed her. She li­ked him. She did not know what to think.

  "What's wrong?"

  She bit her lip, her glan­ce dar­ting past him, lo­oking for Sla­de. He sto­od on the ot­her si­de of the ro­om, with his fat­her and Jud­ge Ste­iner, wat­c­hing them li­ke a hawk. She ma­na­ged to smi­le at Ed­ward, wis­hing Sla­de wo­uld co­me to her. He did not. "I'm just a lit­tle fa­int."

  Edward to­ok her arm. "No won­der. I wo­uld be mo­re than a lit­tle fa­int if it we­re me who just sa­id tho­se vows. Are you ha­ving se­cond tho­ughts, Eli­za­beth?"

  She re­gar­ded him ca­re­ful­ly. "Not as far as Sla­de is con­cer­ned."

  He stu­di­ed her. When his smi­le ca­me, it was as das­hing and di­sar­ming as be­fo­re. But she saw a sha­dow in his eyes. He had un­der­s­to­od her in­nu­en­do. Gen­t­le­man that he was, he cho­se to ig­no­re it. "Go­od. The two of you are per­fect to­get­her." Then his smi­le di­sap­pe­ared and he was un­c­ha­rac­te­ris­ti­cal­ly se­ri­o­us. "Trust me."

  Re­gi­na smot­he­red a gasp. He had not ig­no­red her do­ub­le me­aning af­ter all; he was sen­ding her one of his own. She co­uld not res­pond.

  He bent and brus­hed his warm mo­uth on her che­ek. “The­re is no one I ca­re for mo­re than my brot­her," he told her, the smi­le back, gra­ced with dim­p­les. "And now you are his wi­fe."

  Re­gi­na wat­c­hed him walk away. So Ed­ward al­so f knew. She was cer­ta­in he had just im­p­li­ed that, re­gard- 1 less of her re­al iden­tity, as Sla­de's wi­fe he wo­uld be lo­yal to her. De­ar Lord, was the­re an­yo­ne ot­her than Sla­de who was not a par­t­ner to her mas­qu­era­de? Un­wil­lingly, her ga­ze slip­ped to her fat­her-in-law. Rick had be­en wat­c­hing her, as was Sla­de, who was still be­si­de his fat­her, his fa­ce in­s­c­ru­tab­le. Be­aming, Rick ra­ised a flu­ted glass. "To the bri­de," he cri­ed. Then he cast a warm glan­ce at his son. "And the gro­om. To the new­l­y­weds. To the fu­tu­re."

  He didn't co­me. He wasn't go­ing to co­me. Re­gi­na knew that now.

  It was al­most mid­night. Re­gi­na had be­en wa­iting for him sin­ce sup­per had en­ded three ho­urs ago. She wo­re the thin ivory silk nig­h­t­gown that he had be­en so fas­ci­na­ted with the one ti­me he had se­en her in it, when he had en­te­red her ro­om to wa­ke her up. High-nec­ked and long-sle­eved, the fab­ric was ne­ver­t­he­less so fi­ne that it skim­med every cur­ve of her body. It was scan­da­lo­us, but she wo­re not­hing be­ne­ath it at all. The silk was un­be­arably ex­qu­isi­te upon her body.

  She had bat­hed, per­fu­med her­self, and spent an inor­di­na­te amo­unt of ti­me on her long, ho­ney-blon­de ha­ir. She had ca­re­ful­ly ar­ran­ged her­self in the bed, the she­ets aro­und her wa­ist, her po­si­ti­on en­ti­cing, al­lu­ring. But he hadn't co­me and by now she knew that he wasn't co­ming at all.

  She was up­set.

  He had mar­ri­ed her for her mo­ney and he had be­en open abo­ut it. Yet Re­gi­na had ex­pec­ted him to be a hus­band to her in every sen­se of the word. Had she be­en a fo­ol? She co­uld not help thin­king that he hadn't wan­ted a wi­fe, he had only wan­ted an he­iress. It was she, Re­gi­na, who had wan­ted a hus­band-who had wan­ted Sla­de as her hus­band.

  Re­gi­na slid her ba­re fe­et to the flo­or, te­ars of hurt and an­ger fil­ling her eyes. To­night she had left one of her bed­ro­om do­ors in­vi­tingly open and she lo­oked out­si­de. The­re was no fog. The sky was ink-blue, lit bril­li­antly by an in­can­des­cent full mo­on. Her ga­ze lo­we­red. In his ro­om ac­ross the co­ur­t­yard the lights we­re on.


  He was al­so awa­ke.

  In an in­s­tant she ma­de a de­ci­si­on, one she da­red not dwell on. She hur­led her­self from the ro­om. A qu­ick glan­ce aro­und sho­wed her that the rest of the ho­use was clo­aked in dar­k­ness. As she pas­sed the fo­un­ta­in, her steps slo­wed.

  He had both do­ors fully open, the scre­ens clo­sed. Re­gi­na's he­art be­gan to po­und too fast and too hard. Her chest felt he­avy. The night was co­ol, but she was too warm, even in her thin nig­h­t­gown. What she was do­ing was un­be­li­evably da­ring, un­be­li­evably ag­gres­si­ve. Most la­di­es wo­uld be than­k­ful to be spa­red the­ir hus­bands' at­ten­ti­ons. Re­gi­na al­most pa­used. She had ne­ver ac­ted so im­pul­si­vely be­fo­re, or so de­ci­si­vely. Yet she co­uld not stop, not even to won­der at her­self. Re­gi­na mo­ved in­to the full glow of the ro­om's lights. She ga­zed thro­ugh the scre­en do­ors.

  Abo­ut to knock, her hand fro­ze. Her he­art slam­med. Sla­de was sit­ting up in his bed we­aring only a pa­ir of short sum­mer dra­wers. The­re was a glass of brandy on the tab­le by his bed­si­de, the sa­me tab­le that held the small lamp he had left on. He wasn't re­ading or smo­king or do­ing an­y­t­hing that she co­uld dis­cern. He was just sit­ting the­re, awa­ke and alo­ne.

  She trem­b­led. As far as she was con­cer­ned, he was na­ked. She sho­uld not lo­ok, but she co­uld no mo­re lo­ok away than will her he­art to ce­ase be­ating so madly. His skin glis­te­ned with a she­en of swe­at, des­pi­te the co­ol sea bre­eze. Al­t­ho­ugh re­la­xed, he was so si­ne­wed that the mus­c­les in his arms rip­pled with his slig­h­test mo­ve­ment, as did the ten­dons in his ab­do­men. His chest was was­h­bo­ard-hard. His legs we­re long and hard and scul­p­ted of si­new and mus­c­le and flesh and bo­ne.

  A salty bre­eze te­ased the hem of her thin nig­h­t­gown. It ca­res­sed her ba­re legs, her but­tocks, her bre­asts. Her nip­ples we­re hard, ac­hing. She fol­ded her arms tightly be­ne­ath her bo­som. She was not go­ing to go back to her ro­om, whe­re she too wo­uld sit in bed, awa­ke and alo­ne.

  She swal­lo­wed. Des­pi­te her de­ter­mi­na­ti­on, she was be­set with co­war­di­ce. She ra­ised her hand to rap upon the do­or.

  He sa­id cle­arly, "How long are you gon­na stand out the­re?"

  Re­gi­na jum­ped. She had not re­ali­zed that he had se­en her. All of her co­lor dra­ined from her fa­ce. She felt li­ke a tru­ant ca­ught in a cri­mi­nal act.

  He sto­od up and sta­red at her. His stan­ce was ri­gid and his eyes bla­zed. He ap­pe­ared angry, pre­pa­red to do bat­tle.

  Re­gi­na al­most felt li­ke fle­e­ing. Al­most. "S-Sla­de."

  "What are you do­ing?"

  "I…" She was at a loss. "I c-can't s-sle­ep."

  He to­ok one step to­ward her and hal­ted. He sto­od in the mid­dle of the ro­om now, bat­hed in warm light, whi­le she sto­od on the ot­her si­de of the scre­ens. His ga­ze swept her from he­ad to toe. His ex­p­res­si­on har­de­ned. "You're not go­ing to fall as­le­ep stan­ding the­re."

  She co­uld not be­li­eve she had co­me this far and he wo­uld not in­vi­te her in. In a flash she re­cal­led the­ir wed­ding sup­per. He had sat be­si­de her but he had sa­id very lit­tle. He had not be­en ru­de, but he had be­en ten­se and wit­h­d­rawn. He had not to­uc­hed the cham­pag­ne or wi­ne, which was not usu­al for him. Re­gi­na had be­en too over­w­hel­med her­self to even at­tempt to un­der­s­tand him then. She da­red not un­der­s­tand him now.

  "J­ust what the hell are you do­ing out­si­de of my do­or?"

  "I…" She co­uld not think of any re­ason that might se­em pla­usib­le. Her che­eks fla­med aga­in. He re­gar­ded her ste­adily, ca­re­ful now to lo­ok only at her fa­ce. He was grim.

  Trying to spe­ak was ne­arly ho­pe­less. Her ga­ze kept slip­ping down his ba­re, damp tor­so and past his flat, hard ab­do­men. She had ne­ver se­en a man in his un­der­we­ar be­fo­re. But this was not just any man, it was her hus­band, the man she lo­ved. His shorts drew her eyes li­ke a mag­net draws me­tal. The li­nen fab­ric was opa­que.

  "Go back to yo­ur ro­om," Sla­de or­de­red.

  "T-to­night is our wed­ding night."

  Sla­de's fa­ce was dar­ke­ning with an­ger. "You think I don't know it?"

  Dre­ad fil­led her. '’You're not go­ing to in­vi­te me in?"

  His ga­ze slid over her. "No. Go away. I'll see you at bre­ak­fast in the mor­ning."

  She was shoc­ked.

  Des­pi­te his words, Sla­de did not turn his back on her. In fact, he did not mo­ve. His thighs we­re still bra­ced hard apart. His di­ap­h­ragm in­di­ca­ted that he was bre­at­hing so­mew­hat une­venly and too qu­ickly. His sum­mer dra­wers se­emed ful­ler, the li­nen bil­lo­wing.

  "I'm war­ning you," he sa­id.

  Re­gi­na swal­lo­wed hard. Wi­ves we­re obe­di­ent. She had just sworn to obey him. But if she was obe­di­ent now, she wo­uld be crus­hed. She co­uld not un­der­s­tand why he was sen­ding her away, but every wo­manly in­s­tinct she had told her that his words be­li­ed his fe­elings. Grip­ping the do­or, she swung it open and step­ped in­si­de.

  His eyes we­re wi­de. "What the hell are you do­ing?" And he lo­oked at her as if he co­uld see right thro­ugh her nig­h­t­gown.

  She was re­min­ded that she wo­re not­hing be­ne­ath it. Her body fla­med. A stran­ge wet he­at gat­he­red ne­ar her thighs, whe­re she se­emed to hurt. She hug­ged her­self. "To­night is our wed­ding night."

  "Oh, no," he sa­id. "Get the hell out. Now."

  She co­uld not be­li­eve what he had sa­id. "W-what?"

  "You he­ard me," he sa­id stiffly. His fa­ce was stra­ined, flus­hed mo­re de­eply than hers. The she­en on his dark skin was brig­h­ter, too. "Out. Now."

  Re­gi­na did not think. If ever the­re was a ti­me for ac­ti­on, that ti­me was now, and she ac­ted. Swiftly she mo­ved to him, la­ying her palms on his damp, hard chest.

  He ten­sed. He was in­c­re­du­lo­us.

  She co­uld ba­rely get the words out. "W-we sho­uld b-be to­get­her to­night."

  He re­co­ve­red, grip­ping her wrists hard eno­ugh to hurt her. "No."

  She did not fe­el the pa­in in her wrists. Her thighs brus­hed his. The blo­od in­si­de her was chur­ning wildly. Her body throb­bed. She sho­ok her he­ad, unab­le to spe­ak, and she le­aned aga­inst him.

  He shud­de­red when the­ir lo­ins met, he­at aga­inst he­at.

  Re­gi­na gas­ped, shoc­ked.

  His jaw clen­c­hed. "Don't do this." He did not push her away.

  "Do what?" she as­ked. Her eyes we­re flut­te­ring clo­sed. Her hips had a will of the­ir own, un­du­la­ting aga­inst his ma­le har­d­ness. Her bre­asts swel­led aga­inst his chest. Her nig­h­t­gown clung to her, wet with his swe­at and tran­s­pa­rent.

  He still didn't mo­ve, ex­cept for whe­re his shaft pul­sed aga­inst her. He was swe­ating mo­re he­avily now, and his bre­at­hing had be­co­me harsh. His grip tig­h­te­ned on her wrists and Re­gi­na whim­pe­red, but not in pa­in. He roc­ked her body back an inch. "I don't be­li­eve this," he sa­id thickly. "I'm pla­ying the sa­int and you're pla­ying the fo­ol."

  She ope­ned her eyes. She had not ex­pec­ted to see such car­na­lity in his ga­ze. Her he­art se­emed to stop; she had not ex­pec­ted to see such wic­ked pro­mi­se. Then it be­at even har­der. She felt fa­int, we­ak-kne­ed. His ga­ze slid down her body, in­s­pec­ting her ra­ised nip­ples, the jo­ining of her thighs. She was well awa­re that he co­uld see thro­ugh her nig­h­t­c­lot­hes. She he­ard her­self mo­an, a so­und she co­uld not res­t­ra­in. The­ir bo­di­es no lon­ger to­uc­hed, and she co­uld not stand it. She stra­ined aga­inst the grip he had im­p­ri­so­ned her with, stra­ined for
him.

  "I gi­ve up," he sa­id, his eyes bla­zing, his to­ne dan­ge­ro­us. "I gi­ve up."

  His words, his to­ne, his ex­p­res­si­on, ma­de her cry out.

  Sla­de mo­ved. He to­ok her fa­ce in his hands. He be­gan kis­sing her the way a man might kiss a wo­man if he lo­ved her very much and hadn't se­en her in a very long ti­me.

  With a sob, Re­gi­na threw her arms aro­und him whi­le he kis­sed her en­d­les­sly. It was not­hing li­ke the kiss they had sha­red in the buggy. It was not gen­t­le, soft, or te­asing. It was not even li­ke the kiss they had sha­red at the be­ach. This kiss had no li­mits. It was bru­ising and ter­rif­ying; it was ex­hi­la­ra­ting. It was de­ep, open­mo­ut­hed, and in­ti­ma­te. He tas­ted all of her that he co­uld, plum­bing her mo­uth, and she let him. He didn't to­uch her body, only her fa­ce. His hands ne­ver left her fa­ce. Re­gi­na had ne­ver be­en kis­sed li­ke this in her en­ti­re li­fe, and she was cer­ta­in that she wo­uld ne­ver be kis­sed li­ke this aga­in. She lost all sen­se of ti­me and pla­ce. She lost all sen­se of ever­y­t­hing ot­her than Sla­de. And when he fi­nal­ly drag­ged Ms mo­uth from hers, she in­s­tantly sag­ged to the flo­or.

  Sla­de ca­ught her be­fo­re she ac­tu­al­ly hit the hard wo­od. "We're both gon­na reg­ret this," he sa­id, pan­ting and let­ting her down gently whi­le strad­dling her. Re­gi­na's bre­ath ca­ught. His eyes we­re so bright she felt the he­at as if they con­ta­ined re­al fla­mes. He ca­ught her fa­ce aga­in in his hands and his to­ne be­ca­me re­ve­rent. "Ne­ver," he sa­id harshly, "ne­ver ha­ve I se­en so­me­one so be­a­uti­ful, so­me­one so sexy. Not ever."

  Re­gi­na mo­aned.

  He cla­imed her mo­uth aga­in. He cla­imed her with the sa­me un­da­un­ting for­ce he had used be­fo­re, but Re­gi­na did not mind, for his pas­si­on, cle­arly over­w­hel­ming him, over­w­hel­med her. His kis­ses we­re all that she had dre­amed, and so much mo­re.

 

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