by Anne Stuart
He wanted to throw up. He stared at his fairytale princess of a wife, the one who froze in bed with him, who hadn’t let him even touch her hand for more than a year. “I would have done anything he wanted,” she continued, surveying the knife with a fond air. “But he only likes children. I’m pregnant, you know. Because sooner or later Seth and Ariel will be too old for him as well. And this child will be our special one, just Daddy’s and mine.”
“Oh, God,” Richard moaned, as the full horror sank in. “Diana, angel, you need help . . .”
“Don’t call me that!” she screamed, “I’m not an angel! I’m not anybody’s angel. Tell me Richard, does it make you sick? To know that you can’t measure up to my father? But then, you always knew that. You just didn’t realize that you didn’t measure up in bed, either.” There was spittle coming down the side of her cupid’s bow mouth, and her eyes were totally mad. But still cunning.
“Are you going to try to stop me, Richard?” she cooed, moving closer, the knife clutched in her hand. “It won’t do you any good. I’m good at fooling people, you should know that by now. My father will take us into his home, protective, paternal, and you’ll be charged with child abuse. You might not be convicted, but the stigma will remain. You’ll never see them again.”
“I’ll see you in hell first.”
Her smile blossomed, and he knew suddenly that this was what she wanted.
“Will you, Richard?” she asked. “Be my guest.” And she held out the knife, handle first, daring him.
He lunged for it, but she held tightly to the blade, and he could see the blood spurt around her fingers. She was grinning wildly. “It will look like a struggle, Richard. I grabbed the knife, trying to stop you from killing me, but it was no use. You were crazy, determined to kill me because I’d betrayed you. They’ll put you in jail, Richard, for a long, long time. They may even kill you. And my father will have the children.”
He jerked at the knife, but she held tightly, oblivious to the blood. Suddenly their macabre battle stilled, and she looked up at him, trustingly, beautifully. “What do you want from me, Richard?” she asked.
“I want you to get help,” he said desperately, feeling the hatred welling up inside him.
She shook her head. “No, you don’t, Richard. You want me dead.”
Because it was the truth, he backed away in horror, jerking the knife away from her. But she clung tightly to it, stumbling forward and landing in his arms. He felt the shudder of her body as the knife sank in, slicing through flesh and bone.
She held him, smiling so very sweetly. “Thank you, Richard,” she murmured, as she began to slide toward the floor.
The knife was in her chest, deep, and the blood welled out, dark and pumping. Her eyelids fluttered closed, and he sank to his knees beside her in horror, reaching out to touch the pulse at the side of her neck. It was faint, fluttering, fading. She was dying.
He stared down at her, and his hands were wet with blood. He should get up, find the phone, and dial 911. There was a chance, a very slim chance, she could still make it. He knew he should get up, try to save her.
He didn’t move. He knelt beside her, watching, as her life blood flowed into a deep black pool around them. He watched her die, so quickly, and he thought of their children, safe, hidden. He picked up Diana’s limp hand and held it, gently, tenderly, as she died, and he thought he could see the ghost of a smile on her face.
The police found him there, still kneeling beside her. His fingerprints were on the murder weapon, but it didn’t matter. In his own mind he killed her. Degrees of guilt were a waste of time. All that mattered was that his children be kept safe. In the dark confusion of shock, he could think of only one way to ensure that General Scott never put his filthy hands on them. And that was if they were presumed dead.
He found that he’d gone into a dark, safe place where nothing could touch him. At times during the next few months he wondered whether he made the right choice. Whether he should have simply confessed, to the premeditated murder of his innocent wife and children.
He watched the general from a safe distance, almost amused at the rallying support from the old man, the determination to find the truth and free him. Until he began to believe that Richard must have murdered his wife and children, that there was no other possible explanation. And doubtless he’d guessed why. Scott had explained it all so well during his testimony, looking like the quintessential war hero, a grief-stricken father, betrayed by his much-beloved son-in-law. It had been common knowledge that Diana was planning to leave him, planning to take her abused children with her, home to the safety of her parents’ house. It was no wonder that Richard had finally snapped, and slaughtered them rather than let them go.
But wise or not, Richard never confessed. He kept his secrets, emerging from his self-imposed darkness to trust only two people, Sally Norton and Mark Bellingham. Between them they got the children out of the country, and he never bothered to consider whether they believed him or not. At least they believed him enough to help him. Everything would have been fine, if Sally hadn’t gotten sick.
And suddenly he could no longer simply accept his fate. There was only one way out, and he took it, telling Mark to accept Sean O’Rourke’s constant offers of help. Anything in order to ensure that there’d be someone to take care of his children, even if it meant having to spin an elaborate network of lies for a skeptical Sean O’Rourke. Even if it meant telling him the truth.
But he was mad, as mad as Diana had been at the end. That bloody confrontation in his hallway had turned him psychotic. He had to be, to think he could make a deal with fate. That he could look at a silver-framed photograph and find the answer he needed.
And sure enough, fate had had the last laugh. Instead of proving to be his salvation, the woman in the photograph turned out to be the most disastrous thing that could have happened, after he’d been so very, very careful. She endangered his children, and she endangered her own sister.
There was no longer anything else he could do. The choice was out of his hands. He would face the general, finally, for the confrontation that should have taken place in hell. The black ice that had encased him since the night Diana died had cracked and fallen away. And Richard stood there, wounded, bleeding. Ready for battle.
THE CAR WAS silent, the finely tuned motor of the BMW a quiet purr. Cass sat in the passenger seat, eyes closed, hands lying loosely in her lap. She knew there were tears staining her face, but he wouldn’t notice. And wouldn’t care. He was someplace else, remembering, reliving what he wanted to shut away.
He didn’t want her words of comfort. He didn’t want her justification, her reassurances. He’d faced things, passed his own judgment, and meted out his own punishment.
She’d screwed up his careful plan. His stupid, noble, bullshit plan, and she’d messed it up. She would be furiously grateful that she had, if it weren’t for one reason.
Or actually three. Seth, Ariel, and Francesca.
The little ones were safe for now. But now that he knew they were alive, the general could find them, Cass had no doubt of that. As long as that evil, monstrous old man lived, he would use all his resources to track them down, to take them.
She knew what Richard planned to do when he found the Scotts. And if she found that the old man had put one filthy hand on Francesca, Cass would beat him to it.
She glanced over at Richard. He was somewhere else, his eyes on the dark, shrouded interstate heading north, his strong, elegant hands on the steering wheel, seemingly at ease. She knew it was deceptive. He wasn’t a murderer, despite his guilt-ridden belief.
But before the next twenty-four hours passed, he would be.
Chapter 20
IT BEGAN AS FOG when they crossed the Vermont border. By the time they reached White River Junction it had turned to the deadly click of freezing rain. Richard
didn’t alter his speed. Cass didn’t care. Fear no longer had a place in her life. She was putting her trust in Richard completely. He might not care whether they lived or died, but he wasn’t going to leave Francesca to the mercy of Amberson Scott. He would drive as swiftly as he dared, and Cass would trust him.
The snow should have been a relief by the time they reached Montpelier. Without a word Richard leaned forward and flicked on the radio, but the local weather report was far from reassuring. A spring storm, complete with snow, sleet, and freezing rain, had blown through the Northeast. In another forty-eight hours it would be spring again. In the meantime, northern Vermont was in for it.
“Shit.” The first word spoken between them since he’d made his confession, Richard muttered it tersely as he started down off the interstate highway. As far as Cass was concerned, it was appropriate enough.
He pulled into a McDonald’s and parked, the BMW sliding gently to rest against the curb. “I don’t know about you,” he said, “but I need a bathroom and some coffee.”
It was disturbingly normal. Cassie managed a fitful smile. “Me, too.” She wanted to ask questions but she didn’t dare. She followed him in to the bright, noisy atmosphere.
By the time she emerged from the bathroom, he was nowhere in sight. She panicked, certain he’d abandoned her in the middle of the snowy night, until she looked out into the parking lot. He was already back in the car. She bought a huge cup of coffee and ran out, half-afraid he still might take off again. He watched her impassively, waiting until she refastened her seat belt before pulling into the slippery drive.
“I thought you’d left me,” she said, carefully opening the plastic top and taking a sip. It was hot and strong and oily, and it was close to heaven.
“I considered it.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“For the same reason I allowed you to come in the first place. Your sister might need you.”
It was no more than she expected, and no more than she deserved. “I do have my uses,” she said coolly. “I can take care of children, as long as people explain to me what kind of danger they’re in. And I’m good at going down on convicted murderers.”
He shot her an impassive glance. “True enough.”
The coffee slopped onto her jeans, burning her. “Do you happen to have any idea where we’re going?”
“Yes.”
Cass shut her eyes, mentally counting to ten. “Would you feel like telling me?”
The silence lasted just long enough to make Cass want to scream.
“The Scotts have a house near Smuggler’s Notch. I’m sure they’re there.”
“Why?”
“Because he told Mabry he was taking your sister to Vermont. And he wants me to follow. He wants me to find him. I would think that would be fairly obvious.”
She ignored his vicious tone of voice. “Why obvious? What does he want from you?”
“Revenge. I killed his daughter, remember? His precious, fairy-tale princess.”
“But you didn’t!” she was fool enough to protest. “It was an accident, one she brought on herself. You didn’t . . .”
“Shut up!” he said fiercely. “Just shut the fuck up. I don’t need your explanations, your justifications. She’s dead. I don’t know whether she landed on that knife by accident or on purpose, and I doubt I could have saved her. But the fact is, I didn’t try, and all the rationalizations in the world won’t change that basic fact.” He slammed his fist against the leather-covered steering wheel. “Damn! I told myself I wouldn’t let you do this to me again.”
“I’m not doing anything to you.”
“Cassie,” he said in a cold, angry voice, “after spending the last few weeks with you, the death penalty is beginning to look like a reprieve.”
“I’m not going to let them kill you.”
His laugh was as cold as the snow-fogged night. “You can try to stop them. You can see if anyone will believe you. It might be a moot point by then. Scott is up there in his mini-fortress at Smuggler’s Notch, and once I get up there, one of us won’t come down. I’ll either be dead or a killer, and the state won’t look kindly on either option.”
“I won’t let them kill you,” she said again, her voice fierce and stubborn.
There was a moment of silence. “Cass, don’t you know a losing proposition when you see one?”
“No,” she said. “I still believe in people. I still believe in you.”
“Then God help you,” Richard said.
RICHARD HAD LOST track of time. Cassie was curled up on the front seat beside him, asleep, as he started up the Mountain Road in Stowe, heading toward Smuggler’s Notch, and the first greenish gray light of dawn began to penetrate the darkness. He’d been driving all night.
He glanced over at her. Her eyes were shadowed, her red hair an angry tangle around her pale face, and she wasn’t dressed for this weather. The jeans and sweater wouldn’t provide enough protection against the stinging cold of the spring storm, and her sneakers would be soaked within minutes of starting up the trail to the house.
Why the hell had he brought her? He’d swerved at the last minute, and it would have been easy enough to take off into the New York City night, leaving her standing there. Safe.
Instead he’d taken her with him. He must be a glutton for punishment. A masochist, to keep tormenting himself with her presence. Because even now, with his adrenaline popping, his nerves on the raw edge, his fury with her still strong, he wanted to pull the BMW over to the side of the snow-covered road and pull her into his arms. He wanted to kiss her eyelids, the sensitive spot beneath her ear, the pulse that beat so strongly at the base of her neck. He wanted to love her, not just now, but for always.
There was no such thing for him as always. He’d lied to her when he said either Scott or he would be dead. He wasn’t leaving it to chance, or to the state. They’d both be dead by the time the day was over.
She made a faint, sleepy sound of protest, almost as if she’d heard his thought in her dreams. She knew him so well, and yet not at all. He knew one thing. His instincts had been right. She was the one. She’d go to England and watch over his children. Mark would take care of it for him—he’d left the necessary papers. There would no longer be any danger—Scott would be dead. There was simply no alternative.
He should have done it sooner, rather than let that danger hang over the heads of his children. But the plain and simple fact of the matter was, he wasn’t a murderer. That dark, dreadful place that had closed in on him after Diana had died hadn’t allowed him any action at all. He stayed there in the darkness, only seeing that he had to protect his children. Not realizing that one simple act of violence would protect them forever.
He knew that now. He could thank Cassie for liberating him. Making him breathe again, hurt again, hate again. Making him love again.
He wasn’t going to tell her. He’d considered it coolly, during the long hours of the night drive. Originally it had been part of his plan, to lie to her, to convince her he loved her, so that she’d be tied to him, body and soul, past death.
The damnable thing was, he did love her. And loving her, he couldn’t tell her. Couldn’t tie her to a dead man. She would love the children, take care of them, without that kind of emotional blackmail. She’d heal that much faster if she never knew.
She stirred again, frowning. He wanted to see her in the summer, with freckles across her nose. He wanted to see her in a bathing suit, that lush, gorgeous body that she was so self-conscious of kissed by the sun. He never would. He’d never make love to her in a field of daisies. It was mud and darkness and rain for the likes of them. Sleet and snow and eternal night.
Fields of daisies were for other people. For Cassie and another man. Not for him.
His hands were clenched tightly around the steering whe
el, and he was driving too fast. He slowed down, deliberately. He had to let her go. He knew that, and the sooner the better.
“Damn.”
She stirred, looking up at him sleepily, disoriented. There were motels and ski lodges all the way up the road, and for just a moment he was tempted to stop, to take her inside one and just hold her. Just for an hour or two. Was he so evil that he didn’t even deserve that much comfort?
“What’s wrong?”
“The road is closed.”
“What do you mean?”
“The road over the Notch is closed. It’s usually snowed-in for most of the winter, but by this time of year they open it. Apparently they’ve closed it again because of the storm.”
“Where does that leave us?” she asked.
“Heading up the Notch without snow tires.” He waited for her protest.
She made none. “All right,” she said, leaning back.
He jerked the wheel, too suddenly, and the BMW skidded over to the side of the road, sliding several feet before coming to a stop. She turned to look at him through the early dawn, her face composed. He wanted to rattle that composure. He wanted to shake her, to scream at her, to . . . He saw the bruise. It was a beauty, dark purple, beneath the right side of her chin. He’d forgotten. He stared, sickened, at the mark. He’d never hit a woman in his life, no matter how much Diana had pushed him.
“What’s wrong?” she asked. “What are you staring at?”
He couldn’t help himself. He reached out and touched the bruise, and she flinched. “Oh,” she said in a dull voice, turning her face away from him, “I’d forgotten.”
He wanted to push, to punish himself. “Are you used to being hit?”
