More Than You Know (12 page)

"I'm afraid Mother can be rather obvious,” Rand said as he and Claire stepped onto the verandah. “She would quite willingly sell her soul to see me married."

"As long as she doesn't sell
your
soul,” said Claire.

Rand's step faltered and Claire was brought up short beside him. “What do you mean by that?"

Wishing she could retract her words, Claire simply shook her head. A light breeze from the river made strands of dark hair flutter at her temples. She pressed them back self-consciously.

"No."

At first Claire thought Rand was forbidding her to touch her hair. Her hand dropped to her side before she considered why she was obeying him. When it occurred to Claire that he could command her so simply, she raised her hand again, this time with a small wave of defiance, and pushed back another forward-falling strand of hair.

Rand frowned at Claire's fiddling. He saw it as a way for her to avoid his question. “Tell me what you meant,” he said more harshly this time.

Claire could not have been more startled if he had taken her by the shoulders and shook her. Her hand fell back to her side. “I only meant that it seems you've given up quite a lot of yourself already,” she whispered.

"What do you know about it?” he asked. “Who have you been talking to? Bree?"

"No, not the way you mean. Not just about you.” She released his elbow and took a step away from him. Without her cane Claire was unable to move more than this small distance. She had relied heavily on it to cross the verandah with its scattering of furniture and hanging and potted plants. “Of course I've talked to Bria, but about David and Shelby ... and your mother and father."

Rand stiffened. “What about them? What has Bree been saying?"

Claire raised her arms in front of her. Suddenly chilled, she hugged herself. “Nothing."

"Hardly nothing."

"Just stories,” Claire amended. “That's all. Just stories from your childhood and growing up together."

Rand regarded her for a long moment. Claire always seemed to hear more than was said. Now she had put her own construction on what she'd learned. “I'm going to take your arm,” he said at last. The meager light cast from the house was sufficient for Rand to see her flinch. He may as well have touched her as warned her.

Claire felt Rand's fingers circle her wrist. He placed her hand under his arm. She adjusted her grip so that she held only the sleeve of his jacket. When he began to lead her away from the house, she followed. She could feel the tension in his stride.

"Why are you so angry?” she asked.

"I don't like being the subject of your speculation."

Claire said nothing.

"I wish you would not become Bria's friend."

If he had said it arrogantly, prohibitively, Claire would have turned on him angrily and challenged his right to make such a statement. Instead she was touched by the quiet resignation in his tone and felt something akin to sadness. “And I wish such a thing were possible,” she said. “But your sister is not amenable to friendship."

"You've spent a great deal of time in her company."

"It signifies nothing. Bria is very insular."

"I've seen her with you,” Rand said. “She's warmed to you. She smiles in your company and she's eager to take you off alone."

"Perhaps she thinks it pleases you. It's true that she's warmer than on the occasion of our first meeting, but Bria is hardly sharing confidences.” Except once, Claire thought. After Bria's first failed attempt to gain an ally, there had been no more overtures. “So you see, Captain, I have not become your sister's friend. You have nothing to take me to task for."

Rand had taken a path straight through the gardens. Now he and Claire stood at the lip of the gentle slope that leaned toward the river. Fifty paces away was a gazebo. He turned in that direction. “Do you think I want Bree to have no friends?” he asked Claire.

"No,” Claire said with credible calm. “Quite the contrary. I assume it's something you find lacking in my character that makes me unsuitable for your sister."

Rand sighed. “It's nothing like that. Don't goad me with that absurd line of reasoning."

Claire did not find it absurd at all. Rand had scarcely been complimentary. “Then explain yourself,” she said.

"I thought it was evident. In seven days you'll be leaving. You can hope for no more contact with my sister than through an occasional letter, and since Dr. Stuart is the means through which you compose your letters, I imagine it will only encourage him."

"Encourage Macauley? In what way?"

"To continue his hopeless pursuit of Bree."

"Pursuit? He has only made himself available to take a few walks with her."

"Bree leaves the house to get away from him."

"She leaves the house to remove herself from Orrin's presence."

Rand stopped at the edge of the gazebo. “Stairs,” he said. “Three steps.” He took them carefully, watching Claire, then he led her to the bench that ran along the gazebo rail on six of its eight sides. “We can sit here. The river's behind you. Henley is visible through the trees in front of us. There is lamplight outlining four of the windows on the second floor. I think my mother must be reading in her room."

"If she is,” Claire said, “it's to take her mind off the pain."

Rand was quiet. He leaned back against the rail and became aware that Claire's fingers were still curled in the sleeve of his jacket. He glanced sideways at her shadowed profile. She was staring toward the house, just as if she could see through the trees to the lamplighted windows. “Do you think my mother's ankle is broken?"

"It's difficult to know at this juncture,” she said carefully.

"Stuart examined her the first day."

"I know. He told me it was a severe sprain. It's a moot point. Her problem is blood flow now. Elizabeth should have an herbal poultice applied to relieve the swelling, leeches if she would cooperate, and be made to keep her leg elevated and immobile. She should not have been out of bed this past week.” She also should not have been given the bottled alcohol and opium mixture, Claire thought. It was unfortunate that physicians did not know as much about the workings of the blood as her own father did. “You will have to persuade her. Orrin will want her up, and she will not want to be confined during your visit."

Rand nodded. His voice, when he finally spoke, was strained. “He pushed her, you know. Struck her across the face hard enough to make her fall. That's how she hurt herself."

"I thought it was something like that. Macauley mentioned a bruise on her cheek."

"Sometimes I hate her for marrying him.” The bitter words came out in a rush, as if Rand had lost a battle to hold them back. “She defiled my father's memory, taking him to her bed."

"She saved your father's legacy,” Claire offered quietly. “Elizabeth saved Henley. She bought you time."

Rand rubbed the back of his neck, massaging the corded muscles. “There's no difference between my mother and Jeri-Ellen."

"Jeri-Ellen?"

"A London whore."

Claire's hand fell away from Rand. “How dare you,” she said with soft menace. “It's acceptable to lie with one but unacceptable to
be
one. Is that what you're saying? Your mother used the only means she had to keep Henley in the family, and in your heart you revile her for it? Tell me, do you feel the same way about Bria?"

Rand jerked upright. “What do you mean? What have you heard?"

Claire recoiled from the heat of Rand's barely leashed anger. She did not have to understand the thinly veiled accusation to feel cut by it. “I haven't heard anything. Bria manages the plantation. That was all I meant. She stays here, removes herself from everyone in Charleston to oversee Henley. It matters not at all that Orrin Foster owns it now and calls it Concord. Is she sullying your father's memory because she runs Henley for another man, a surly clod who can't appreciate what she's doing?"

Rand simply stared at her. “Are you talking about Orrin or me?” he asked finally.

"I don't know anymore, but if the shoe...” She shrugged. “Shall I tell you what I really think, Captain?"

Since she had yet to mince words, he wondered what she could possibly have left to say. “Only if you call me Rand."

"Pardon?"

"If you're going to tear another strip off me, I'd prefer you called me Rand."

"What I think, Captain,” she said quite deliberately, “is that you believe that you have somehow failed to protect both your mother and sister and the memories of two brothers and a beloved father. You blame yourself for not being able to take Henley into your own hands after the war. You blame yourself for the decision your mother made and for the course your sister's life is taking. You want Bria married and away from here as a balm for your own conscience, regardless of her wishes. It pains you to look at her calloused hands the same way it pains you to see your mother's injuries. You see those things and you feel your failure more keenly. The problem is, it belittles what Elizabeth and Bria have accomplished.” Claire drew in a calming breath. “And that's what I think,” she finished softly. “Captain."

Rand rested his forearms on his knees. His fingers were folded and the balls of his thumbs tapped lightly together. His head was bent. He stared at the gazebo floor a long time before he felt the ache at the back of his throat. Swallowing was hard. Pressure built behind his eyes and he blinked. Along the rim of his lashes he felt the welling of tears. When had he last cried? he wondered. Had he shed any tears for David or Shelby? Had he cried when he read his father's name on the dead rolls? Not even for Bria, not even when he had learned what had been done to her, had he cried.

"Rand?"

It was the concern in her voice. Just that. There was no pity or sympathy. No pretense of understanding. It was simply concern and it undid him.

Rand felt the first tear slip over the edge of his lashes and drip to the floor. It was quickly followed by another. He sucked in a shaky breath and held it in until he felt Claire's hand rest lightly on his forearm. She barely touched him, laying her fingers across his sleeve more than his arm, but he recognized her presence in spite of that. She kept her hand still. She didn't stroke or pat him like a child or make any soothing sounds, yet her touch acted on Rand like a lightning rod, grounding him while the emotional storm struck and vibrated through him.

He turned on her slowly, careful not to dislodge the hand that was his lifeline. “Let me,” he said on a reedy thread of sound. “Say yes."

She had no clear idea what he was asking, but Claire also knew she wouldn't refuse. “Yes,” she said. When she felt the heat of him, heard his breathing change as he bent toward her, and understood what he wanted of her, Claire's answer remained unchanged.

"Yes,” she said again. And this time his mouth closed over her softly parted lips.

She could have been anyone, Claire thought. It was closeness he needed, not
her
closeness. She should remember that, she cautioned herself, but it was difficult from the very first. These were
her
lips opening under the pressure of his mouth.
Her
breath that was caught at the back of her throat.

His hands came to rest at the small of her back. He gave her only a moment to accept him there, then she felt Rand's strength in the tension in his forearms and fingers as she was inexorably pulled toward him.

He held her tightly. One hand slid up the length of her spine until Claire's breasts were flattened against his chest. Her fingers found purchase at the level of Rand's shoulders, and she held on. The pressure on her mouth increased. His tongue swept the underside of her lip. The breath she would have taken was taken from her.

It was not enough for him. He traced the ridge of her teeth, then withdrew and kissed the corner of her mouth. He held her still, one hand buried in her coil of dark hair while the other slipped between their bodies and found her breast. His thumb passed back and forth across the taut material of her bodice. She whimpered against his lips.

The pins were removed from her hair. She heard them drop one by one to the floor of the gazebo, and with the part of her mind that could think of nothing else than what was about to happen to her, she counted them. At six her hair cascaded over Rand's wrist and across her back. His fingers twisted in the thick strands and he tugged gently. Her face was lifted, raised and tilted so that his mouth grazed her cheek and chin and the underside of her jaw. The line of her throat was exposed to him. In the evening's velvet shadows it had acquired a milky radiance. His lips touched her skin, first just behind her ear, then lower until they found the pulse at the base of her throat. He drew on her skin there, sucking gently until he had a shivering response from her. His mouth grew more heated then, and the touch of it was like a brand on her flesh. He could not seem to get her close enough or kiss her quite hard enough. She simply held on.

He was breathing roughly when he dragged himself away from her. There was only the briefest pause before he stood and pulled Claire to her feet in front of him. She came without protest or fear and her forehead rested against his shoulder while he unfastened the back of her gown. He pushed the opened neckline over her shoulders and tugged on the wide straps of her chemise. Claire took a steadying breath as the strings of her corset were loosened and Rand's fingers slipped under the stiff stays to touch her skin.