Jeopardy (12 page)

He frowned. “Now, I’m surprised. You’re always the life of any party.”

She moved her shoulders, uncomfortable about explaining something she’d never really understood herself. “I’ve always dreaded large parties, but if my family is there, I feel better about it. And once I get there and I see people I know, I’m usually okay."

“I would think
okay
is an understatement. Honey, I’ve seen you positively sizzle.”

She grinned. “You were paying attention?”

“There were times I couldn’t take my eyes off you.”

“You know what? Sometimes I had the same problem with you.”

He nodded slowly. “It’s only fair."

Her grin widened. “Would you like to hear my theory about rooms and houses?”

“If you have a theory," he said solemnly, “then I have an obligation to hear it.”

She noted the twinkle in his eye and punched him lightly in the arm. “Okay, here it is. I think houses absorb and store up the things that happen inside them, I think that’s what gives them their character and personality."

Amarillo cleared his throat. “That’s an interesting theory, all right. Do we have any scientists working on it at the moment?"

She sent him a look meant to quell, but that succeeded only in increasing the twinkle in his eye. “Okay, now, take this room for instance. It’s known parties and dances galore. It’s even had at least one wedding that we know of held in it. Remember? Nico and Caitlin were married here.”

 “I remember. You wore violet.”

She grimaced. “Violet, of course.” She shook her head. “I'm beginning to believe that I have a very weird mind. ”

He grinned. "Luckily, I get very turned on by weird.”

She laughed, and the sound traveled through the empty room, then came back to her as a faint echo. She looked at him. “See what I mean? It’s a happy room.”

He reached out and touched her. "I don’t know about the room,” he said quietly, “but I’m glad to see you happy.”

She decided not to let him know how fleeting she felt this happiness was. He would want to know why, she wouldn’t be able to explain, and they would both get upset. “Remember Elena here on Nico and Caitlin’s wedding day? Now,
there
was someone who was happy.”

He nodded in agreement. “She glowed. It was wonderful that she could come to SwanSea at least once before she died.”

“And that she lived to see her family united with her husband's family. It gave her such peace in her last year. I’m very grateful for it. Caitlin told her what she had heard of that time after Elena’s husband John was killed in the war. According to lore passed down among SwanSea servants, Edward closed himself up in his rooms and didn’t come out until months later. The servants put the mail aside and eventually bundled it up into the attic. Edward never received Elena’s Bible or letter. He never knew he had a daughter-in-law or a grandson. If he had known, I’m sure Deverell history would have been rewritten.” Angelica shrugged her shoulders.

He pushed a heavy strand of her hair away from her face. “You might have grown up right here at SwanSea. Have you ever thought about that?” 

“No, but I’ve never felt deprived. It hasn’t been that many years since I learned I was a Deverell. The news was a wonderful, astonishing surprise, but nothing can take away from the DiFrenza part of me. Thanks to Elena, I already had a complete and rich life and heritage. Knowing about the Deverells’ connection to us and about SwanSea is simply an enrichment of that life and heritage." 

“What a nice way to look at it.”

“The first time I saw SwanSea, I had the strangest sensation of coming home. It was as if this place had always been waiting for me. I love coming here to visit, but I wouldn’t change anything about my life up until now. I don’t feel as if I’ve lost anything. I feel as if I’ve gained.” Especially her time with him, she thought. She reached out and caressed his face, and it occurred to her that this was a very precious moment, talking quietly with him in the surrounding warmth and sunshine of the room.

He took her hand, kissed its palm, then curled his hand around hers. “Your mother died when you were very young, didn't she?”

"I was about two and a half years old. If I didn’t have photographs of her, I wouldn’t remember her at all. Elena became my mother. If I hadn’t had her—”

Amarillo suddenly frowned. “Are we making you sad by talking about your mother and Elena?”

 She laughed at him in surprise. “No. Why?”

“I don’t know. Just a feeling I got.”

He was very perceptive, she thought. He had realized before she had that her spirits were falling. He had the reason wrong, though. It wasn’t what they were talking about that was the cause, but rather her growing belief that a peaceful, quiet time with him like this might not happen again.

There was a darkness threatening her, and she was frightened. She didn’t know from where the darkness was coming, but she was certain it would eventually entomb her. A strange sort of cold sensation gripped her, chilling her to the bone. She glanced around the beautiful, sun-filled room, then back to him. She could still feel the room’s warmth, and she knew he could make her feel heat.

She reached for him. “Make love to me.”

“Here? Now?”

“No one will come in.”

“How do you know?”

“Please,” she whispered, her lips against his.

He shouldn’t, he thought. At least not until he had locked or barred the doors in some way. But he was only human, a man obsessed with one woman,
this
woman. And there was an urgency in her. He could no more turn down her request to make love than he could fly.

To be able to touch her was a guarantee that his heart would beat one more time. To be able to slide into her and feel her close tightly around him was insurance that he would continue to breathe. Without these things he might die.

He helped her undress, then undressed himself.

He touched her, he slid into her; he continued to live.

Currents of air drifted around the huge room, brushing over the crystals of the chandeliers. Sweet, clear, bell-like music sounded, and rainbows of color played over their skin. And their happiness and pleasure in each other seemed to saturate the ballroom and be absorbed into its very walls.

*
* *

Angelica was frightened. She couldn’t see; everything was dark, black. She heard a child crying. The child was so scared, so bewildered, she didn’t understand the muted voices outside. But they grew louder, angrier.

“Stupid woman! You’re worrying about the wrong things."

“Don’t be angry with me. I love you. You’re my golden-haired boy. It hurts me when you call me names.”

“Then do what I say,
exactly
what I say.”

“I will. I love you.”

The door was jerked open. The dark silhouette of a man appeared against a dim light. “Look at her. She’s filthy! And she’s always crying. I told her if she doesn’t start minding me, she’ll be sorry, because I’ll
make
her mind me.”

“She needs to go home.”

“She will, if she minds me, and if you do as I say. ”

The man grabbed her and scrubbed her face hard with a rough cloth that scraped her skin. It hurt so bad; every time he touched her he hurt her. She cried and cried. He slapped her, knocking her backward onto the old mattress, and then there was darkness again. And she was all alone. All alone.

Angelica came wide awake and sat straight up in bed, gasping for air. Arms reached out for her.
"No!"
She hit the arms away and scrambled for the end of the bed.

Nico’s hands closed around her upper arms, holding her back. “What’s wrong, sweetheart? Where are you going? Did you have another dream?”

She swung wildly around, dislodging his grip on her. “Don’t
touch
me!”

“All right,” he said, his tone calm and soothing. “All right. Just let me switch on a light.” He leaned over, clicked on the bedside lamp, then turned to look at her, and his heart leapt into his throat. She was kneeling at the end of the bed, hunched, ready to bolt. Her face was pale, her eyes were wide and filled with fear; beneath the violet chemise her chest rose and fell with agitation. She looked like some wild, helpless creature who was being hunted, he thought with anguish. “Did you have another dream?” he whispered, careful not to make am unexpected move.

“Dream?” She didn’t know. She couldn’t explain what had just gone on in her mind, and most of all, she was afraid to try. "No.”

“Then what’s wrong?”

"Nothing. Leave me alone.”

“I’m not touching you, Angelica. Come back up here beside me. Get under the covers. I don’t want you to get chilled.”

She tilted her head, listening. His voice was low, quiet, a soft, velvet purr, so unlike those she had just heard in her mind.
She had heard those voices before.
Who were those people? The man had said she was filthy. The woman had called him her golden-haired boy. Her glance flew to Amarillo. His hair was sandy-colored. And he was looking at her with concern.

She put a hand to her face where the man had slapped her. She could still feel the stinging hurt.

"I’ve got to wash.” She scrambled off the bed and hurried into the bathroom. The lights were blindingly bright at first, but she didn’t care. She grabbed a washcloth, wet and soaped it, then began to scrub her face. She pushed the cloth hard back and forth over her cheeks. It was painful, but she couldn’t stop. The man had called her filthy. She rinsed the cloth with hot, steaming water and started the process again.

Amarillo came up behind her and lightly put his hands on her shoulders. Fear instantly seized her. She pushed back against him, trying for maneuvering room so that she could get free of him.

“Don’t fight me, honey. I’m not going to hurt you.” He wrapped one arm around her, and with the other reached to pry the cloth away from her.

She turned and hit out at him. “Give that back to me! I need it!”

He tossed the cloth across the room, grabbed her wrists, and held them to his chest. “You’re going to injure yourself, Angelica.”

“Don’t be silly. I’m just washing.”

He cupped his hand along the side of her cheek and flicked his thumb back and forth across the reddened skin. “There’s not a speck of dirt on you, sweetheart.”

Tears welled in her eyes, and her voice broke. “There must be.”

He had never felt so powerless in his life. She was going through something awful, and he didn’t know how to help her. He slowly shook his head and swept her up into his arms. “Come on, let me take you back to bed.”

The thought of going back to bed, the place where she had had the dream, terrified her, and she began to struggle, pushing against his chest. “No, I don’t want to be in bed!”

He stopped and gazed down at her. The fear was still there in her eyes, as were the tears. He wanted to curse, to vent this terrible anger he felt because she was so upset and it seemed nothing he could do or say made any difference. Instead, he asked very gently, “Where do you want to be?”

“Any place but the bed.”

He carried her to the sofa, and after laying her down he bent to the fireplace and built a fire. Then he returned to the bed and scooped up a blanket, but when he leaned toward the lamp on the bedside table, she called out to him.

“Leave the light on.”

He glanced over his shoulder at her, a frown on his face. “You won’t be able to get back to sleep if I do. "

“Yes, I will.” She had no intention of sleeping again, but telling him would only provoke an argument. “If you think it will keep you from sleeping, maybe you should go to your room.”

He straightened. “I’m staying.” He returned to the couch and settled himself on it with her in his arms.

At first she lay stiffly, determined not to allow herself to give way to sleep. Dreams lay in sleep. Darkness too. And she had had enough of both. But gradually the heat from his body soaked into her and she relaxed and slept.

* * *

The next morning Angelica awoke alone on the couch, and in an instant everything that had happened the night before came rushing back to her. Appalled and embarrassed, she shut her eyes and covered her face with her hand. She had screamed at Amarillo not to touch her, then rushed to the bathroom and practically scrubbed the skin from her face. There she had fought him again. Finally he had had to bodily carry her from the bathroom.

He must have thought she was completely demented. He’d be justified in thinking so, her actions had been those of a crazy person.

Slowly she rose from the couch and went to shower and dress. When she returned to the bedroom, she found Amarillo sitting in front of a breakfast-laden table.

He smiled at her. “Good morning. I hope you’re hungry. I ordered everything I could think of.”

She eyed him cautiously. He looked so fresh and vital and full of energy, as if he were up to any challenge. It was the exact opposite of what she felt. “I don’t think I want anything to eat just yet.”

He pointed toward a plate of croissants and fruit. “How about something light?”

She smiled faintly. “You’re still trying to feed me.”

“That must be because I still think you need to eat.”

“Don’t worry about me,” she said airily. "Losing a few pounds wouldn’t hurt me at all.”

“It would hurt me.”

“Why?”

“Because—” he stopped, unsure of what he wanted to say. He stared at her for a moment, then stood and came to her and framed her face with his hands. “You look pale.”

“I'm fine.”

The strain of her expression told him that she wasn’t. He frowned. “Maybe you should see a doctor. ”

“Because of a little nightmare? Don't be silly.” She broke away from him and walked to the table. “I don’t see anything chocolate here.”

“You’re changing the subject."

“I never get far away from the subject of chocolate.”

“That was more than a little nightmare, Angelica, and we both know it.”

With a sigh she turned back around. “Okay. Yes, yes, it was, but I don’t want to talk about it. And I don’t want you worrying about it. ” 

"Worrying about it? You scared the hell out of me last night, Angelica.”