Now and Forever (77 page)

A little humility. A touch of vulnerability. That was the secret to success.

Even if she choked on it.

"My apologies, sir," she said, gazing up at him through lowered lashes. "It has been a most difficult day."

Is that humble enough for you, Devane?
That granite jaw softened the slightest bit as she sat back down.
See? We can get along. All I have to do is turn into a mindless twit.

"You were on my property," he said without preamble. "I require an explanation."

She gave him her best wide-eyed and innocent look, the one that had never worked on her boss at the library. "You own the woods?"

"I own the town."

"An overstatement, I'm sure."

"An understatement, madam. I am a wealthy and powerful man."

"Don't forget modest," she murmured.

"Say again."

Not on your life.
"If I trespassed, I apologize." If he lived in the twentieth century, he'd probably install a surveillance camera in the highest pine tree and monitor the deer.

She watched his face, waiting for a reaction to her apology. If there was one, she couldn't see it
. Remind me never to play poker with you, Devane.

"What is it you sought in the woods, madam?"

The sixty-four thousand dollar question. Now all she had to do was come up with an answer. "It was a difficult journey," she said carefully. "I lost my way."

"Where is it you wished to go?"

"I--I do not know."

"You try my patience, madam. Do not play the fool for I will not allow it."

"I tell the truth. I do not know my destination."

If possible, his glower grew even more threatening."You are in the habit of wandering the woods, half-dressed, in a blizzard?"

"That's about the size of it."

"An unusual expression, madam. Where did you come by it?"

She ignored the question and plunged ahead. "I have lost the people near to me." The quaver in her voice surprised her; it was the real thing.

"You have lost them to death?"

She looked away. "I do not know." The balloon had been in dire trouble. Although it terrified her to think about it, anything was possible. "My family is gone. My friends are lost to me. I do not know where I am, only that I am probably in New Jersey."

"Franklin Ridge in the colony of New Jersey," he elaborated. "In the house of Patrick Devane."

"I have travelled long and far. I do not even know the day of the month."

"The first of December, madam." A hint of a smile flickered across his face. "The year of Our Lord Seventeen Hundred and Seventy-Nine."

The thundering in her head drowned out everything else. 1779…the worst winter of the war. Before the month was out, snow would drift past the first-floor windows, choking the roads, killing the soldiers, making her escape impossible.

"Madam?" Devane stepped closer to where she stood. "Are you unwell?"

"Yes--I mean, no."

"You are trembling."

"The cold." She sank back down into the chair.

"This room is warm."

"I'm cold," she repeated.

"That is a trait we share in common."

"I was speaking of the temperature."

"As was I, madam." His expression betrayed nothing but she had the oddest sense that he had revealed himself to her in an intimate, if puzzling, way.

They fell quiet as Cook's husband Joseph entered the room, bearing an armful of wood. Working swiftly, the grey-haired man added the logs to the fire, pumped the bellows a half dozen times, then bowed and left the room. Her mind raced, leaping between possibilities, dodging probable landmines, searching for something--anything--to say that this suspicious man might believe.

Devane waited until Joseph's footsteps faded down the hallway then he turned to Dakota. "Your story, madam," he said without preamble.

"My husband was a simple man...."

#

She lies,
Patrick thought, watching the play of light and shadow on the woman's face as she wove a story of sorrow and loss. He was not a man who put much stock in second sight, but there was no denying the strong feeling inside him that all was not as it seemed.

Not that her story wasn't most believable. The woman wove a canny tale, designed to bring a hard-hearted man to tears. A loving husband she had joined in battle, only to lose him to a Lobsterback's bayonet. Faithful friends had opened their heart and home to her and she had found a measure of contentment under their roof until they were routed by British General Gage's men.

She spoke with animation. At times her voice shook with emotion. From another woman, at another time, he would have no reason to doubt her veracity. When she told him about the stagecoach accident along the Millstone River and the blow to the head that had rendered her unconscious, he had felt her pain.

At least he had felt her pain until he remembered that the stagecoach had not run along the Millstone River in many months.

You are a liar, madam,
he thought, watching as her dark eyes shimmered with tears.
And a most accomplished one.

Dakota Wylie was a spy. Of that he was certain.

The question now remained, to which side did she belong.

#

He's buying it,
Dakota thought gleefully. Hook, line, and sinker.

The more outrageous the story got, the more certain she became that he believed every single word. So far she'd created a martyred husband, saintly parents in New Hampshire, and wonderful friends whose sole purpose in life was to see to her comfort and happiness. She was even pretty darned certain she'd noticed a single tear forming at the inner corner of his right eye as she described her loneliness at being separated from people who meant so much to her.

For a woman who'd never told a lie in her entire life, she was showing an appalling talent for tall tales. She hoped the fact that it was a life-or-death situation would make up for it later on.

And it
was
a life or death situation.

If Devane found out she was lying, she had no doubt he'd kill her.

The guy simmered with rage. It was the look in his eyes, the way he carried himself, that low growl of a voice. No wonder his wife had run off to Philadelphia. Being married to Patrick Devane had to be like sleepwalking through a minefield.

"Begging your pardon." They both turned toward the doorway to find Cook standing there. "I fixed a nice plate for the lady. Fresh bread right from the oven and my own cider to wash it down."

"That sounds wonderful." Dakota rose from her chair. "I'm on my way."

She made to leave the room but Devane blocked her way. "We have not finished our conversation."

"I think we have," she said.

"There is still the question of your future plans."

She looked up and met his eyes. "I don't see why my plans should be any concern of yours."

"You are in my house and that makes you my responsibility."

"Sorry," she said lightly. "I'm not buying that."

"Madam?"

"I don't believe you. Be honest with me, Mr. Devane: you do not care what happens to me, any more than I care what happens to you. You offered me your hospitality for the night and I accepted. Beyond that, you owe me nothing at all."

"Look." He strode toward the window. How he managed to pack such a testosterone punch into such a simple gesture was beyond her. He drew the drapes back. "A blizzard, Mistress Wylie. You will not be going anywhere tomorrow or the day after."

"Oh God," she said, peering through the frosty glass at the Currier & Ives scene in front of her. "I may not be going anywhere until spring."

Their eyes met. If possible, he was even more devastating by moonlight, with the angles and planes of his gorgeous face chiseled to perfection by light and shadow and one damn fine set of genes. It was one of those Kodak moments diehard romantics celebrated in greeting cards and sappy love songs.

A magnificent man.

A lonely woman.

A roaring fireplace.

Anything seemed possible.

The tight waistband of her gown must be cutting off circulation to her brain. There wasn't the slightest hint of attraction between them. Suspicion, yes. Curiosity, definitely. But attraction? Not on your life.

Still there was no denying that everything about the man had been designed to get a woman's attention. What was it about bad-tempered macho types that set a good woman's blood racing?

"Excuse me," she said, turning away from the window--and from temptation. "Cook must be wondering where I am."

He didn't move aside. Somehow she wasn't surprised. Crowds probably parted for him like the Red Sea for Moses.

"I will have my answer," he said. "Make no mistake about it."

"I have told you all there is to tell."

"I fear I do not believe you, madam."

"And I fear that is your problem, Mr. Devane."

Getting out of here alive is mine.

Chapter Seven

No matter how hard Abigail tried, she couldn't fall asleep.

Papa had sent her to her room without dinner--punishment, he'd told her, for running away from home. "Disobedience will not be tolerated," he'd said in his angriest voice. "If I cannot teach you, the good sisters will."

Her stomach rumbled and she shifted position, drawing her knees up close. Papa thought that being hungry would teach her to behave but so far all it had done was make her even angrier. Papa still thought she was a baby. He didn't realize she knew exactly where Cook stored wondrous things like leftover stew and bread, and as soon as the house fell quiet, she would sneak down the back stairs and eat to her heart's content.

She wondered when Papa and the lady from the maple tree would stop talking and say good-night. Abigail would give anything to know what they were saying. She couldn't remember the last time a stranger had spent the night in the big white house, especially not a stranger as peculiar as Dakota Wylie.

She pulled the coverlet up over her shoulders and made sure Lucy was tucked in safe and snug. She had said terrible things to the lady, calling her a monster and saying she wasn't pretty when in truth she was. Her cheeks burned as she remembered her ugly words. It was just she had never seen a grown woman sitting in a maple tree before. And she surely had never seen one wearing breeches she surely had never seen one wearing breeches or with hair so short that it made her look like a child.

In truth Dakota didn't look anything like a monster but Abigail knew that monsters came in many guises and she was smart enough to be careful.

It seemed as if Papa and Dakota had been talking for hours. She wondered if they were talking about her. Maybe Papa was telling Dakota about the Girls School of the Sacred Heart in Boston and Dakota was telling Papa why he shouldn't send his little girl so far away.

Sometimes when she closed her eyes and made her mind go all dark and empty, she could see what was going on in other parts of the house, really see them same as if she were standing right there in the room. But tonight she just couldn't make the pictures appear inside her head. She squeezed her eyes shut as tightly as she could and waited but she didn't see or hear a thing.

A very long time ago she'd asked her governess why it was she heard people talking when they didn't even move their lips. The governess, a sour-faced young woman from New Hampshire, had given her a peculiar look then laughed and said that Abigail had something called an imagination. But when Abigail told the governess that she really shouldn't think such peculiar things about the way Cook's son looked without his breeches on, the governess had let out a shriek then rushed up to her room to pack her bags.