Winter's Edge

by Anne Stuart

  The faint touch of his body against hers had almost sent the knife slicing through her hand, and it took all her self-control to hide her sudden agitation. Why in God's name does he have such an effect on me?

  He leaned back, watching her out of solemn eyes. "It's good of you to help Mrs. Morse with dinner."

  She nodded, tossing one potato into the bowl of water and picking up another. After a moment she felt him move away, and she breathed a tiny, imperceptible sigh of relief.

  "Come in for drinks when you're finished," he said suddenly. "We may as well try to behave like reasonable adults as long as you're here."

  As a graceful invitation it still lacked a lot, but Molly found herself suddenly hopeful.

  "What are you looking so happy about all of a sudden, missy?" Mrs. Morse demanded of her as she bustled back into the kitchen. "You win the lottery or something?"

  Molly shrugged, hiding her face. She knew perfectly well that her reaction to his slight mellowing was all out of proportion, but it didn't matter. She had learned one thing about her loss of memory that she didn't find very comforting. ,

  She might have forgotten names and faces and people and events, but she hadn't forgotten emotions. She cared about her husband, quite desperately, and his feelings toward her were at best decidedly lukewarm, at times bordering on hatred. But his partial civility tonight was a start She began humming a tuneless little hum.

  "You'd better let me finish those," Mrs. Morse offered after a few minutes, "and go in and get yourself a drink. I can take care of the rest. Thanks for the help."

  She wanted to go find Patrick. To test out this new, inexplicable feeling. She wanted to stay in the kitchen, hidden away like a latter-day Cinderella. She squared her shoulders. "Any time."

  Patrick was sitting in front of the fire, a glass in his hand, staring thoughtfully into space. He frowned when he saw her, and she firmly controlled a strong desire to run back upstairs, away from his obvious disapproval. Instead she smiled shyly.

  No reaction. Since he didn't seem about to move, she poured herself a glass of the cranberry juice that seemed reserved for her and went to a seat near the fire. Near him. His eyes were fastened on her now, and she wondered what he was thinking. Probably comparing her to Lisa, she thought, and she knew who would come out ahead in that little competition.

  "Why did you marry me?" she asked quietly, tucking her feet up under her. "Was it only for the money?"

  He jumped, and his drink splashed onto his jeans. "Why do you ask?" he countered gruffly.

  "We weren't in love, were we?"

  "No, not at all," he answered after a moment. Whether he thought she was lying about her memory or not, he'd obviously decided to give her the benefit of the doubt. For now. "It seemed like the logical thing to do at the time. It was what my father wanted, and you were always eager to please my father."

  "Were you? Eager to please your father, that is?"

  "No," he said flatly. "I spent most of my life going out of my way to drive him crazy. We were both too strong willed. He only had to decide something for me to take the opposite view."

  "Then if your father thought we should get married, why did you give in?"

  His smile was wintry cold in the dim light. "My father was more adept than most at getting his own way, even beyond the grave. He left his place to me, of course. I was his only child, his heir. But he left the majority of the money to you. Hadn't you wondered where it came from? Part of my father's twisted sense of humor. He knew I needed the money to keep this place going, and you needed a home. It seemed an obvious solution, and I decided to be practical for once. He was dead—there was no need to rebel against him anymore."

  Molly stared at him, appalled. "Didn't I expect to fall in love at some point?" she asked a bit breathlessly. "Why in heaven's name would I agree to marry you?"

  He shrugged. "You didn't share your thoughts on the subject with me at the time. You always used to love this place—you said it was the only real home you'd ever known. And you loved my father. You wanted what he wanted."

  He leaned back, staring into the fire. "He left the estate that way on purpose, you know. From the moment you came here he was determined that sooner or later we'd get married. Perfect blood lines, he'd decided, and once Father decided something there was no talking him out of it. He wanted to breed thoroughbred grandchildren the way he bred thoroughbred horses."

  "But we didn't."

  "Didn't what?" he said in a rough voice.

  "Breed perfect grandchildren."

  His laugh was short and mirthless. "Neither of us were in the mood. Don't worry, Molly, we won't have to suffer much longer from our mistake, I can promise you that. As soon as the divorce comes through you can take all your money and leave."

  "And how will you support Winter's Edge?" she asked. "Or is your future wife rich enough to provide you with the capital you need? It must be convenient, finding wealthy women willing to marry and support you in the style to which you seem accustomed." Her voice was bitter with an old, forgotten hurt.

  He turned on her savagely. "She is not my future wife, damn you. And it's none of your business how I support this place. I can manage without your help, without your money. If my father hadn't been so damned good at playing games it never would have been your money." He took a long pull on his drink.

  "That was the only reason I married you?" she asked, unable to leave it alone. There was something more there, something he wasn't telling her.

  He looked up, a faint, cynical expression in his eyes. "Well, there was the fact that you'd had a crush on me since you were sixteen. That may have had something to do with it."

  "I was in love with you?" she said in a hushed voice.

  "No!" It was a sharp protest. "You were a lonely adolescent who thought I was the perfect romantic hero. You used to follow me around like a lost puppy dog."

  She could feel color flood her cheeks, and she bit her lip. This was her fault, she'd pushed him. But she wished he'd shown just a trace more compassion. "How very embarrassing for you," she said faintly. "I must have put quite a damper on your love life."

  "Not particularly," he said, and she couldn't be sure what he was referring to.

  "And when did I get over this embarrassing infatuation?" she asked lightly.

  He stared at her, cool and removed. "On our wedding day," he said flatly. "I'm getting sick of nostalgia, Molly. Either be quiet or go away."

  She stared at him out of shadowed eyes, wondering whether throwing her drink at him might help. She retreated into silence, settling back against the cushions with every appearance of unconcern as she concentrated on the dancing flames in the fireplace. Even Beastie's presence by her side was more torment than comfort, reminding her how alone she was in this place.

  She glanced across the room at Patrick, unable to help herself. He was as cold as ice, and she wondered whether spring would ever touch the inhabitants of the old stone house, or whether they'd remain forever trapped in the icy winter.

  Conversation at dinner that night was stilted. Uncle Willy was his usual slightly drunken self, and decided to make up for his previous rudeness by showering Molly with effusive compliments, constantly refilling her cranberry juice until she felt bloated, trying to force vodka on her, generally being attentive and obnoxious. She would have hated it but for one interesting fact. All Willy's overbearing attentions seemed to have a most satisfying effect on Patrick, just as Toby's had the night before.

  Her husband might not want her, but he sure as hell didn't want anyone else to touch her, even as elderly a lecher as Uncle Willy. He stared at them with a sour expression, and she knew he wanted to send her up to bed as he had the previous nights.

  But she had no intention of behaving like a naughty little girl. Her behavior was exemplary, annoying him even further, and it was well past eleven when she finally left them. She had learned a lot that day, and had a lot more to learn. She knew where her money came from, and she had a fairly
good idea of why Patrick had married her. Not because of the money, but out of pity for the poor infatuated teenager. The notion was intensely painful.

  She fell into bed feeling waterlogged and exhausted, and dreamed of Patrick, staring at her out of brooding eyes.

  It shouldn't have bothered him, Patrick thought. That lost expression in her eyes, when he'd thrown her infatuation back in her face. If she really couldn't remember it, why should it have embarrassed her?

  But suddenly he remembered what it was like. He'd just come back home after two years away, his most recent exodus the result of his worst parental battle to date. He'd gone places, seen things, done things he still hated to think about, and he felt dirty, cruel and worthless. Until he'd looked down into the sixteen-year-old eyes of his father's latest stray and seen a shining adoration he'd never deserved.

  He couldn't resist it, as much as he tried. She worshiped the ground he walked on, even taking his part in battles with his formidable father.

  And instead of further inciting Jared Winters's wrath, she'd merely made his father retreat with a crafty smile.

  She was pretty, she was smart, she was brave, and she was unbearably loyal. If he'd been ten years younger. If she'd been someone other than his father's handpicked consort…

  As it was, he'd ignored his zipper, treated her like the younger sister he'd never had, and kept his hands to himself. Each year it grew harder, and each year he was more determined to keep her at a distance. And each year his father's goading and Molly's innocent adoration eroded his determination.

  He gave in, at last. After his father's sudden death from a heart attack, after the will was read and she was crying, desperate to make him take all that money that she'd never wanted. He'd come up with the obvious, logical answer, one that would salve her pride, support the expense of Winter's Edge farm, and please the ghost of his father.

  Not to mention the fact that he wanted it, wanted her so badly that it was eating him alive.

  He thought he'd gotten over that during their ten months of married life. She'd done her best to cure him, but he should have known better. All he had to do was look down into those innocent, green-blue eyes, and it all came rushing back.

  But this time he wouldn't give in. He could keep the place going without the substantial amount his father had left her. A little economy, a lot of hard work, and things would be fine.

  That was just what he needed. To work so hard he wouldn't have time to think. To remember. To want what he couldn't have.

  To work so hard he'd be free of her. At last.

  Chapter Seven

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  At six-thirty the next morning, Molly leaned over the side of her bed and threw up all over the fluffy white carpet. She rolled onto her back with bemused satisfaction. At least now something would have to be done about this awful room, she thought, and was sick again. She was too weak and dizzy to even try to make it to the bathroom, and she leaned back with a throbbing head against the immense pillows that adorned her bed.

  There was no longer any way she could ignore the inevitable. She ate all the time, slept too much, and threw up every morning. Put that on top of a memory loss and the personal history of a slut, and there was only one logical explanation.

  She was pregnant.

  The notion both horrified and enchanted her. She looked down at her flat stomach and imagined it, round and full with a baby. She ran a tentative hand across it and found she could smile. It was a perfect image, but only with the right father to complete the picture.

  It was only logical to assume that Patrick was the father. After all, he was her husband, albeit a not very enthusiastic one.

  A baby might mend the brokenness between them. But she didn't want a baby for marriage therapy, she wanted Patrick's baby because she…well, she just wanted Patrick's baby.

  But what if the baby was someone else's? The man she'd run away with? Or any of the scores of lovers she'd supposedly enjoyed?

  She still wanted that baby. And nothing and no one would take it away from her.

  She also wasn't going to exist in a state of limbo any longer, now that she'd faced the shocking probability. She wanted answers, she wanted proof. She wanted to buy baby clothes.

  She climbed out of bed, slowly and carefully, but all traces of illness seemed to have passed except for a slight weakness in her knees. She moved to the window and flung it open, letting in the fresh cool air to cleanse the room.

  The sun was shining for once, proving that Pennsylvania wasn't always covered with rain or dark, brooding clouds. There was the softest hint of spring in the air, a mere suggestion of warmth and growing things, but it was enough to give Molly one of her first feelings of optimism. She showered and dressed in record time, cleaned up the mess beside the bed, and prepared to deal with the hand fate had dealt her.

  "Who's my doctor?" she asked as she walked into the kitchen. Mrs. Morse already had a cup of coffee ready for her, but she paused in the act of handing it to her, clearly startled.

  "What's wrong? Are you having aftereffects from your accident? We can get in touch with the hospital in New Jersey…"

  "No, I just need a regular doctor. Whoever I usually see." She took a tentative sip of the coffee, wondering how it would sit on her troubled stomach.

  "You want to tell me why?"

  Molly looked at her. Mrs. Morse was her only ally in this house full of angry strangers, and yet, for some reason she was loath to say anything. Perhaps she was afraid saying it aloud would make it go away. Maybe she was equally frightened that saying it aloud would make it more real.

  "I just thought I needed a checkup," she said casually. "It's nothing to worry about, Mrs. Morse. I thought I ought to do something about birth control." True enough, in a way, she thought to herself.

  "I'll give Dr. Turner a call for you," she offered.

  "I'll take care of it myself. If you could just find me her number I'll call her when I get back from my walk. I need to get away from here for a little while, out in the fresh air."

  Mrs. Morse paused, a startled expression on her face. "That's something," she said.

  "What?"

  "You knew Dr. Turner was a woman."

  It never failed to unnerve her, these lightning flashes of knowledge that came without warning. "Maybe my memory's coming back," she said lightly.

  "Maybe," Mrs. Morse said in a worried voice. "Let me just make you some bacon and eggs before you go out…"

  "No, thanks!" Molly replied hastily, not feeling quite as recovered as she'd thought. The very idea of food was enough for her stomach to cramp up, and she set her coffee mug down, barely touched. "I'll have something later."

  She rushed out into the early April sunshine, taking deep gulps of the clean wet air, and suddenly had the mad, determined desire to run. She took off at a comfortable lope, her body falling into the rhythm of it with effortless grace. She moved past the farm buildings, past the startled ducks, past Ben, her long hair streaming behind her, her heart pumping with a mindless joy.

  She wanted to run forever, but she knew instinctively that she hadn't paced herself. After a bit she slowed, reluctantly, her heart pounding against her ribs, her breath rasping in her lungs. Her body wasn't as responsive as it had once been—she knew that without being sure how. She'd grown soft, her stamina had shattered. Perhaps it was the new life that might be growing inside her. She could only hope so.

  The trees overhead were in bud, the winter brown-gray had a blush of green upon it, and all around her was the smell of wet spring earth. She inhaled it like a strong drug, wondering whether anyone could feel hopeless on a perfect day like this one, with the rich puffs of fleecy white clouds rolling around in the bluest of blue skies, and the soft spring breeze blowing in her face. As she continued down the narrow dirt track at a more moderate pace she was filled with a new hope, a new resolution that nothing could quite shake.

  She hadn't gone less than a quarter of a mile when a sudden noise from the
underbrush that lined the dirt road startled her into stopping. There was an eerie prickling at the back of her neck. Someone was watching her. Someone, or something, that wanted to hurt her.

  She almost laughed out loud when she recognized Beastie's lumbering form charging down the road, knocking her flat on her back as he greeted her. She hugged him exuberantly, receiving a thorough face cleaning in return, then challenged him to a race down to the pile of rubble some ways in the distance.

  He beat her, of course, and was waiting with ill-concealed canine smugness when she finally reached him, panting and gasping. And then she recognized where she was.

  It was the charred remains of the barn she had supposedly burned down. Even after five long weeks the smell of wet, charred wood hung in the air. A part of one wall was standing, and she could imagine the flames crackling around the old structure, could even hear the screams of the poor tortured horses, could smell the sickening smell of burning flesh. She sank to the ground, dizzy, faint, and put her head between her knees.

  "Are you all right?" She heard a soft voice nearby, and she looked up, blinking in the bright sunlight, to see Toby staring at her through the wire-rimmed glasses, his eyes dark and intense, his voice full of a soft concern that should have warmed her. She told herself it did, and yet she thought of Patrick.

  She nodded, pulling herself together with a concerted effort and smiling up at him. "I just felt a little dizzy for a moment," she said. "I'd forgotten that I'm supposed to take it easy for a while." She looked at the incriminating ruins with sick eyes. "This…this must be the barn that burned."

  He moved closer, sunlight glinting off the glasses and making his expression unreadable. "Don't you remember anything? Anything at all?"

  "Not a thing," she said, resting her chin on her knees, trying to keep the guilt and misery out of her voice. Toby might have missed it, but Beastie was more attuned to her, and he whined softly, pushing his huge muzzle against her face.