Jane Bonander (14 page)

She didn’t feel lucky. The marriage was ridiculous. She had deceived him from the beginning, but hadn’t cared enough to enlighten him because he didn’t seem to deserve to know the truth. Of course, the fact that she was a coward had nothing to do with it. She gave herself a disparaging smile.

The frustrating thing was that each day something happened that showed him in a better light. His love and compassion for his sister. His fondness for the children. His patience with everyone he employed. It would be her luck if she started to fall in love with him about the time he discovered she was a phony. When that happened, no amount of effort on her part would make her marriage work, because it would be over and she’d be out on her rump.

Her feelings for him had already changed. She didn’t think she’d ever feel this way about another man. Only Tristan. For the first time in weeks, she thought of Charles. Sweet, baby-faced Charles. He might just as well have been her brother, for she felt nothing stronger toward him and never had.

She twisted and gasped, emitting an
ouch
as a pin poked her in the breast. She tried to reach the menacing object, but it was too awkward.

“Dinah? What’s wrong?”

Tristan’s voice sent shivers through her, especially when she wasn’t expecting it. “I thought you’d be over at the saloon, drinking with your cronies.”

She had no idea where she thought he’d be, but she surely hadn’t expected him to hang around the dressmaker’s. Unless, of course, he’d come to see Belle.

She pushed a noisy sputter of air out through her lips, pretending she didn’t care. The nausea in her stomach told her otherwise.

On the other side of the curtain, he laughed, a lazy sound that sent her pulse pounding. “Don’t get your hopes up. I had to stay and make sure you didn’t hoodwink Belle into letting you keep that damned binder. Makes you look like a stable boy, you know.”

She made a face at the curtain. “How nice of you to notice.”

“What happened in there? Did you hurt yourself?”

“I’ve pricked myself with a pin.” She gasped again as it dug further into her flesh. “Can you find Belle? Every time I breathe it sticks me.”

He pulled the curtain aside and entered, filling the small room so completely Dinah could hardly breathe.

“What are you doing? You shouldn’t be in here.” She crossed her arms over her breasts.

Cursing quietly, he went behind her. “Don’t be foolish. Belle’s busy. I can help you.”

Memories of the morning before in their shared dressing room made her wonder what kind of help he planned to offer.

“Where’s the pin?” Brow furrowed, he unfastened the camisole.

She watched him work in the mirror. He obviously knew his way around a woman’s unmentionables. The thought made her jealous, and that surprised her. “My, you’re quite skilled at undoing a lady’s clothing, aren’t you?”

He concentrated on her snaps. “Why wouldn’t I be? With the number of tarts you seem to think are begging for my affections, I’d be hard pressed not to learn to undress a woman as quickly as possible.” A smile lurked at the corners of his mouth. He pulled the camisole toward him.

“Ouch!”

“What! Damn it, where’s the pin?”

“In … in front,” she explained with a vague movement of her hand.

His fingers went still. “Don’t move.” He carefully pulled the edges of the camisole apart, then put his hand inside, slowly reaching around to the front. His fingers sent gooseflesh galloping over her skin.

Sweet Mary, how much of this was she expected to take? She tried to remove his hand, but in doing so, pressed the pin into her breast, causing another sharp intake of breath.

“Please,” she pleaded, breathless. “Let me get it.”

Ignoring her, he pulled the camisole over her arms, freeing her breasts. Her gaze went to the mirror, where the picture of him standing behind her, cradling her bosom, made her heart sprint like a runaway horse.

Blinking furiously, she looked down and saw the pin jutting out on the inner surface of the fabric. “Oh, here it is.” She plucked it out and jabbed it into a pincushion that sat nearby.

“It stuck you. You’re bleeding.”

A tiny drop of blood had soaked into the camisole, and another was on the surface of her breast.

“Oh, that’s nothing, I’ll—” She gasped as he bent and pressed his lips to the tiny wound.

Desire swamped her. She put her arm around his neck, more to keep her balance than anything else. Her fingers gripped his shoulder as his mouth moved restlessly over her breast. He found her nipple, kissed it, then washed it with his tongue.

Through a fog of desire, she detected a bite of anger that his touch could affect her so. She’d promised herself she’d be stronger than this. Gathering her strength, she cursed and yanked at his hair.

“Tristan! Why in the name of God are you doing this to me?” Her emotions were atumble, and she wanted to scream and cry and beat at his chest.

He raised his head, his eyes dark. She saw them change, and he swore, turning from her to face the curtain. “You’re right.” He jerked the curtain aside. “Thank you for reminding me.”

Closing her eyes, she slumped to the bench and rested her head on the wall. How would she stand it? She’d been married less than two full days, and she wanted to escape. Not because of anything he’d done, although he hadn’t kept his word about not touching her, but because, in the deepest recesses of her soul, she wanted his touch—and more.

She knew the only way to stop him was to tell him the truth. She faced a dilemma: whether she told him the truth or not, she would lose.

Martin paced in the library, from the bookshelves by the window, around the expensive rosewood desk with the rich, leather-upholstered chair, across the thick carpet of floral medallions, past the table with the expensive mosaic boxes that stood beneath the carved mirror, to the cabinet that held the liquor, then back to the bookshelves.

He dug out his pocket watch and checked the time. Damn. The fool was late.

Hearing a conveyance pull up outside, Martin stepped to the window and scowled at the man who exited the buggy. “It’s about blasted time,” he muttered under his breath.

Moments later, his guest entered the study, carrying a travel bag.

“What took you so long? Your train leaves in less than two hours.”

The man appeared surprised by Martin’s impatience.

He dropped his travel bag onto the floor. “I had to pack, didn’t I?”

Martin’s answer was a growl as he crossed to his desk and yanked open a drawer. He pulled out an envelope. “In here are your instructions and money to cover your trip.”

The man grabbed the envelope and peered inside, thumbing through the contents. His eyes filled with anger and disbelief. “You don’t expect me to live on this, do you?”

Martin stood firm. “McCafferty has done all the work. He’s already posed as a peddler and combed the countryside searching for her. Found her, too. He’s willing to keep up the charade until you get there and get her ready for me.” He pulled out a cigar, stuck it between his teeth, but didn’t light it.

“We were damned lucky to discover that that nurse was scheduled to leave for California and that my niece did, indeed, use the ticket.” He chewed on the cigar, softening it the way he liked it.

“Aren’t the police looking for her, too?”

Martin gave him an impatient nod. “That’s why I want you on that train immediately. I must find her before they do. Now, go,” he commanded. “The only thing you have to do is confirm that she’s actually there, and find a way to keep her there. That’s your only duty. Anything else and you’ll scare her. If she runs, I’ll know why.”

“When are you coming?”

“Soon enough. I’ll get a message through to you.” He smirked, the cigar still tight between his teeth. “Then we’ll have some real fun.”

The man’s eyes narrowed and he frowned. “You’re an evil man, Odell.”

“Not so evil,” Martin amended. “Just greedy. Haven’t you heard that old expression, what’s mine is mine and what’s yours is mine? That’s the way I’ve always felt about my brother’s money.”

“When will I get my final payment?”

“When I can see for myself that she’s taken care of. Permanently.”

“You mean, after she’s been returned to Trenway and under yours and the doctor’s thumbs, again? What if they charge her with murdering the nurse? If she’s hanged, you get nothing.”

Martin couldn’t stop a knowing smile. “There are many forms of punishment for a crime. Life in prison without parole comes to mind.”

The man tucked the envelope into his breast pocket, grabbed his travel bag, and went to the door. “I know we’re not friends, Odell, but I sure as hell wouldn’t want to be your enemy.”

“That’s nice to know,” Martin answered with a smirk. “Just don’t forget it.”

When his spy had gone, Martin poured himself a snifter of his brother’s expensive brandy and settled into a velvet wing chair that stood by the fireplace. He sighed, a rich, contented sound. How lucky for him that there were cases of it in the wine cellar.

As he sipped his cognac, relishing the sting, he knew that life was good. The only dark spot was that damned independent niece of his. He scowled into his drink. Leave it to her to find a way out of a veritable prison and spoil all of his plans.

It had been over a week since they’d been to the dressmaker. Tristan and Lucas were busy building the new stable, allowing all of the boys to help. The girls had been asked, but they chose to help in the house.

Dinah was relieved that Tristan was busy, because she was more in control of herself when he wasn’t around.

After Tristan had told her about Emily’s surgery that morning in the attic, Dinah had been anxious to speak with her. As difficult as it was, she knew it would help them both if she could get Emily to talk about her incarceration. She didn’t have to be a nurse to know that it wasn’t healthy for Emily to keep her feelings bottled up inside her.

Now, although it was barely dawn, she found Emily in the attic.

“Emily?”

Emily didn’t turn. “What are you doing up here?”

Dinah sat on the floor beside her. “That’s what I wanted to ask you. You don’t have to hide your paintings. I … I had no idea you were in so much pain. These paintings tell me you’re hurting from the time your mother had you put away.”

Emily shuddered, clutching the brush in her fist. “When Mama first came to visit after sending me away, I tried to tell her what they were doing to me, but she ignored me.” Her voice was filled with tears, like a child’s when no one stops to listen or understand.

Dinah swallowed a knot of emotion. “If anyone understands what you went through, Emily, it’s I. I wish you’d tell me about it.”

Emily used the end of the brush as a pointer and directed it at the painting that showed her screaming. “They cut me there.”

Dinah winced. “Did your mother tell you why?”

Emily shook her head. “They told Mother it was some kind of new treatment. I heard her talking to the doctors, but they didn’t talk to me. No one told me anything. I wanted Tristan so badly. Tristan would have told me, but Tristan never came to see me.”

Dinah had heard bits and pieces of conversation about a new experiment that involved removing a woman’s uterus, which was considered the place where her insanity originated. Daisy had told her that the newest wrinkle in psychiatry was that the very processes of menses, giving birth, and lactation were identified as primary causes of insanity in women.

“Leave it to a man to put that crazy puzzle together,” Daisy had criticized. She’d assured Dinah it wasn’t so. Dinah chose to believe her.

“Tristan didn’t know you were there, Emily.”

“I know that, now.” She uttered a watery sigh. “Papa wouldn’t have let them do that. Papa wouldn’t have sent me away. I was Papa’s princess.”

Dinah pressed her forehead to her knee. “Do you want to talk about the hospital, Emily?”

“I was sad there.”

Dinah stroked Emily’s shoulders. “I was sad there, too.”

“But you worked there. Did it make you sad to see the unhappy girls?”

“Someday I’ll tell you my story, Emily, but yes, it made me very sad.”

“I cried.”

Emily’s reactions appeared superficial, but Dinah wondered if that wasn’t all she was capable of expressing. In words, anyway.

“You don’t have to paint your pictures in the attic, Emily.”

She became agitated. “Mama will punish me if she catches me.”

Dinah continued to massage Emily’s shoulders. “I thought we’d straightened that out. Your mother is dead. She can’t punish you. Your brother and I want to make things better for you, and if it helps for you to paint these pictures, then feel free to do them in your room. Or in the great room.”

She had a brilliant idea. “Maybe Tristan and Lucas could build you a room to paint in, like the studios of famous artists in Europe.”

Emily brightened. “How about the room off the kitchen?”

“You don’t mean Alice’s room, do you?”

“No, the other room. The porch. It has windows and I could see outside, watch the birds and the animals.” Her face was lit up like a child’s.

“Why don’t we ask Tristan about it?”

“All right.” Emily briefly rested her head on Dinah’s hand. “I’m working on that picture of Tristan. It will be ready soon. I’d … I’d let you see it, but I want it to be a surprise.”

Dinah patted her shoulder. Obviously she had nothing more to share. If there was anything else inside Emily’s head, Dinah knew of no way to get at it.

“Will you at least promise me you won’t sneak up here and paint anymore?”

“You don’t care what I paint?”

“No,” Dinah answered with a smile. “Not if it makes you feel better.” She crossed to the stairs and was ready to descend when Emily called her.

“Yes, Emily?”

“I like you.”

Dinah felt the sting of tears. “I like you too, Emily, very much.”

Suddenly remembering the doll, Dinah asked, “Emily, I found a doll up here wearing a blue gown. What happened to her face?”

Emily stopped painting and looked at her lap. “Mama hit it with a wooden spoon.”

Dinah cringed. “Why would she do such a thing?”

In a rush of breathy words, Emily answered, “Because I was playing with the doll instead of listening to Mama.”

Dinah shook her head and left. She didn’t think she’d heard one nice thing about Zelda Fletcher since the day she arrived.

She returned to her room to straighten it before going down to breakfast. As she made her bed, she thought about Tristan and how he’d invaded her dreams. He was there, doing things to her that would awaken her from a dead sleep. She wondered what it would be like to have him beside her. There were times that, miserable as she was, she would have traded her poor stuffed bear for Tristan’s warmth.

Once her bed was made, she crossed to the window. It was another bright, cloudless day. Golden poppies and white daisies swayed to and fro on the hilly slopes. Birds twittered and sang. There was movement in the garden, and Dinah knew it was a rabbit. She pitied the poor thing if Alice caught it.

She hugged herself. It was too glorious a day to be stuck inside. She and Emily would have to go out.

Though none of her new gowns had arrived yet, the outfit she’d ordered specially from Belle, one she’d asked her to keep silent about, had come the day before. She wondered if she’d ever get a chance to wear it.

With a reluctant sigh, she pulled herself from the window, threw on her wrapper over her nightgown, and hurried downstairs. She’d grown accustomed to taking a cup of tea with Alice before Emily awakened, and before they started their day together. She’d had no idea that Emily had probably been awake and in the attic painting long before the rest of the family had stirred.

She bounced into the kitchen. “Good morning, Alice.” The room smelled wonderful. The scent of spices, robust ham, and fried potatoes lingered in the air.

The housekeeper was taking a sheet of molasses cookies from the oven. “Morning, dear. Tea’s ready.”

Dinah inhaled, exhaling a noisy sigh. “It smells good in here.” As a girl, she’d been shooed from the kitchen when her mother caught her there, and told some ridiculous story about how it was no place for a gently bred young lady.

She poured herself some tea, then swiped a fresh cookie off the counter.

Alice clucked her tongue. “Now, is that the sort of breakfast a person should have?”

She bit into the cookie; it melted in her mouth. “It’s the sort of breakfast I’m going to have.” What a luxury to eat what she pleased. She nibbled the cookie, and Alice placed a bowl of porridge, swimming in cream and melting butter, in front of her.

“You expect me to eat that, too?”

“Cookies are fine after breakfast. You need something that sticks to your ribs.”

Dinah felt a twinge of guilt knowing that her friends at Trenway were eating gray swill with mysterious chunks floating in it, while she groused about eating Alice’s delicious cooked cereal. Of course, that shame was merely perched on top of the heavy burden of guilt she carried with her constantly because she couldn’t bear to tell Tristan who she really was.

There were footsteps on the stoop. Even before the door opened, she knew who it was. Her body betrayed her. She hadn’t recovered from her dreams, in which he’d been her seductive lover.

Tristan stepped into the kitchen, stopped, and gave her a casual glance. A shiver stole over her.

“You’re awake early.” He crossed the to the stove and poured himself a cup of coffee.

“I’m here at this time every morning.” She studied his wide shoulders, snugly encased in the buckskin shirt he wore when he worked outside. He was so beautiful he took her breath away. The thought seemed corny to her, but she knew of no other way to describe him.

Alice put a plate of breakfast on the table and ordered him to sit. He unfolded the linen napkin and dropped it onto his lap, then caught Dinah watching him. He gave her a lazy smile, sending her stupid, lovesick heart into her throat.

“I’m cooking a batch of beans for lunch today,” Alice announced. “Also have a ham and some cornbread for those youngsters. My,” she said with a sigh, “it does my old heart good to have someone eat and enjoy my cooking.” She tossed Dinah a knowing glance.

“Alice, I love your cooking. I wish I could convince you of that.” Dinah was slowly experiencing the return of her appetite. Ever since Tristan had told her of Alice’s pique regarding her inability to eat, she’d made a bigger effort to do so. She’d also quit storing food in her room, which was probably a good thing, because one night she was certain she’d heard a mouse. In the morning, half of the piece of sugar cake she’d saved was gone. The idea that she’d had a furry visitor while she slept made her skin crawl. Many a night at Trenway, she’d awakened after a creature had scurried across her body.

“You are getting better, I will admit that.” Alice plunked another slab of fried ham onto Tristan’s plate.

“When do the children start working?”

Dinah shoved Trenway from her mind and perked up. “The children? You’re working with the children today? Oh, I’d love to come with you.”

Tristan’s expression was closed. “It’s time to plant the corn. Besides, Emily is plenty for you to deal with.”

Dinah sniffed at him. “Despot.”

The merest hint of a smile touched the corners of his mouth. “Hooligan.”

Glaring at him, she ate a spoonful of porridge. “Tyrant.”

His eyes flashed as his gaze moved over her hair. “Witch.”

She gave him a menacing look. “Devil.”

He studied her chest, his gaze roaming over it as palpably as if he’d touched it.