The Outcast (29 page)
Worn-down and weary from the constant battle of will and want, Patrice closed her eyes. It couldn’t go on, this relentless strife between head and heart. Too many things lay unresolved for her to even consider rest.
And that left only one alternative. Answers. She had to know. She had to put the endless turmoil at rest. Was it love or loyalty that would control her future?
The only answer was in Reeve.
Reeve did the necessary chores by rote, keeping busy so he didn’t have to think. He curried, fed, and stabled the horses after first cleaning and replacing straw. He lugged fresh water for the troughs, slipping and sliding in the muddy drive as the heavy buckets pendulumed in his arms. He shoveled stones into the deepest ruts of the entry road and stamped the filler flat. Finally, exhausted, filthy, and aching, he trudged up to the house, only to pause on the front steps and look up.
What a huge difference between belonging to a house and owning a house. The Glade was his, yet he felt no shift of pride or pleasure within him. Just because some old lawyer said it was, didn’t make it so. Words and paper didn’t make the feelings settle any easier inside him.
He felt the shabbiness of his attire. He hadn’t changed out of the severe black suit he’d worn at
his father’s grave. He’d taken off the coat and vest, pushed up the sleeves, and gone to work. The fancy shoes were dulled by dirt and manure-straw mix. The sharply creased trousers sported a tear on one knee from a nail off the feed bin. Mud smudged up and down the thighs where he’d wiped his palms. His shirt had long since lost its whiteness and starch under the stress of body heat and perspiration. He and the fancy clothes didn’t go together any more than his living in the big house alone.
For a moment, uncertainty got ahold of him, swelling big and hurtful within his chest. What was he, Reeve Garrett, bastard son of a seamstress, doing on the threshold of this new world? He had none of Jonah’s extensive training in deportment and things prim and proper. He knew the land, the soil, the four-legged beasts who grazed on its bounty.
The twilight hour was still, laced with the wet-earth scent of the earlier rain. All was quiet. Waiting. Waiting for him to make a move.
He took the steps slowly, stride growing more confident with each one he climbed. He crossed the porch at a brisk pace and went in the front door, pausing only to lever out of his shoes. Not because he had to, but because he didn’t want to clean up after them later. Standing in the cavernous front foyer, he took in the grandeur and dominating wealth and refused to back down to its mocking intimidation.
Mine.
The notion surprised, then surrounded him with an empowering sense of control. His. All of it. Every room. Every rug. Every board and brick.
And every inch of its emptiness. All his, and here
he was wondering why having it had been so important to him when getting it left his spirits so deflated.
The heavy curtains were still closed in the study to yield an air of privacy. Reeve left them that way, preferring the darkness for the way it catered to his mood. Here, he’d had his last argument with the squire. Had he known there would never be an opportunity to speak to him again, would he have said anything different? His fingertips traced across the top of the desk. The only thing upon it now was his copy of his father’s last will and testament. He’d resented the man who’d fathered him, and admired him, too. A hard combination to justify, at least so soon after his passing. A time would come when he’d wish that last moment back, knowing exactly what he’d have said, and he would probably despair the rest of his life over missing that chance. But not tonight.
Tonight, he remained slightly disoriented by the idea of loss. In truth, he felt Patrice’s absence more keenly than Byron’s. The house was too quiet, as if it held its breath in expectation. Waiting for what, he wondered. He found himself listening for the sound of movement, but the air was still. He cocked his head, thinking he’d heard voices, but it was just the wind stirring the bushes outside. Suddenly, the huge space grew too small, too confining.
And then the sound of smashing glass brought him running back into the hall.
A rock rested on hardwood in a litter of window shards. Reeve bent, relieving it of the scrap of white paper tied about it. The message was succinct.
Murderer! Tomorrow is judgment day
!
Nice of them to let him know when they were coming.
Bottle of bourbon in one hand and rifle braced across his knees, just in case they got the date wrong, he sat on the front porch, listening to the night sounds.
The echo of hoofbeats reached him through the rustle of the trees and the stirring of the horses. He took his time, setting the bottle on the step below him, thumbing back the hammer of his Spencer repeater. Then he waited to receive his first guests.
Totally unprepared for who’d come calling.
Night raiders bent on burning down his house wouldn’t arrive in the Sinclair’s fancy carriage.
“Were you expecting company?”
His whole body went tight at the sound of Patrice’s sharp-edged observation as the carriage pulled up at the end of the walk. He let out a hint of a smile. “Not really. But I don’t want to appear a bad host by not being ready.” His gaze hungered over the sight of her; the arrogant way she sat in the carriage, the flippant tone meant to conceal her nervousness, the rapid flutter of her jacket lapels that had nothing to do with exertion. Then he asked.
“Why you here, Patrice? Forget something?”
She met his gaze, and neither could look away. “Yes,” was all she told him.
Patrice waited until Reeve eased off the porch and sauntered to the carriage. He put up both hands and she leaned into them, her pulse jumping at the sudden strength of them clasping her rib cage. Her senses spun giddily as he swung her down, keeping her suspended that last inch above solid ground for just a moment too long. Just long enough for their
stares to fence in token resistance before surrendering up a mutual truce. He set her down and stepped back.
Without looking at him, Reeve said, “Thanks for seeing her safely over here, Jericho. I’ll make sure she gets home.”
Jericho hesitated, caught between the roles of obedient servant and protective man. “Mista Reeve, I don’t know—”
“It’s all right, Jericho,” Patrice cut in to calm him. “I won’t be long.”
“I’ll be waitin’ up for you, Miss Patrice,” he murmured, then added more prickly, “to sees you gets home proper.”
“Thank you, Jericho.”
Even before he angled the carriage around to take his leave, he’d been dismissed from both their minds.
Smiling, Patrice touched Reeve’s once-crisp shirt. “This will never come clean again.”
“Hope I never have another occasion to wear it.”
She glanced down uncomfortably, wondering if she’d made a terrible mistake. Not caring because of the way her heart was thundering with forbidden excitement.
“Can I get you something?” The obligations of host sounded forced on his lips, but she couldn’t take her gaze off them as she watched him speak.
“What’s that you’ve got there?” She nodded toward the steps.
“Some of the Fairfax bourbon.”
“That’ll be fine.” At the upward leap of his brows, she smirked. “I’ve had it before.”
“Tyler trying to relax your resolve?”
She smothered the smile provoked by Reeve’s
sarcasm. “Actually, Starla. We were trying to feel wicked and worldly.”
“Did you?”
“Until we woke up the next morning.” She sat down on the top steps with a swirl of her skirt to one side so he had room to join her. He didn’t, not at first, preferring to stand over her in a somewhat wary pose. She hefted the bottle daintily and drank from it. One swallow. Two. She sucked a quick breath, then handed it to him. He took it, ignoring the challenging lift of her smile. He took a drink, then cut right to it.
“What did you forget, Patrice?”
She didn’t reply at once. Instead, she hugged to her knees and gazed out into the darkness. “I forgot to tell you how sorry I was. It was such a shock. I cared for him, too. He was almost … almost a father to me.”
For a moment, they were silent, sharing the thick sense of sorrow. Then she spoke again, her tone less steady, less sure.
“I wasn’t able to speak to you after the service, but I wanted to know that you were all right, to tell you—to tell you I’m sorry.” She ended lamely, words confusing the real issues.
“You didn’t have to ride all the way over here in the middle of the night to tell me that.” His tone chided, goading for the real reason as he dropped down to the step beside her.
“Yes, I did.” Patrice fidgeted, fingering the fabric of her skirt, wishing she had the courage to ask for the bottle back. “I—I wanted to talk to you about some things the squire said to me before—before he died.” She had his full attention. She could feel the scorch of his questing stare.
“What things?”
She caught herself before the words formed. If she asked about the terms of the will, and he answered the way she expected him to, nothing would be the same between them again. Yet, she would have to ask, she had to know, but not just now, not right at this very minute as emotions twisted and churned inside her, feelings she’d denied, then tried to repress, ever since she’d first seen him standing at his mother’s grave.
“Can we go inside? I’m getting a little chilled.”
Reeve quirked a doubtful smile, but he didn’t challenge her. He took her elbow to assist her, and together they went into the big empty house. Patrice was surprised she couldn’t hear the banging of her anxiousness echoing all around them. Suddenly, she felt rushed by the urgency of her feelings, by the confusion in her mind. She’d needed more time. Shyly, she brushed his soiled sleeve.
“I’ll wait if you’d like to clean up a bit.”
Reeve stepped back and sniffed unobtrusively. His expression puckered. All his earlier work outside left him a little less than presentable to a lady. The delay would give him a chance to plan out the words to begin his campaign upon the heart of Patrice Sinclair. She’d made the first step by coming to his door. It was his intention to see she didn’t regret it. “Be back in a minute. Make yourself at home.”
He’d left a change of casual things in the back washing porch. Reeve hurried there, stripping off his offensive shirt as he went. Why was she really here? He heard serious business in her tone of voice and read pure promise in her sultry eyes. He tossed off the trousers and shimmied out of his sweat-soured
long johns once he’d reached the small enclosure where the floorboards slanted away from the house to channel off rain and water. Grabbing up a cloth and sudsing it up well, he scrubbed himself down until the only thing he could smell was soap and his discarded garments. He kicked them into a corner.
Why had she come back, alone? For talk? Or touching?
Toweling dry, he cast about for a set of long underwear. Seeing none, he shook out a pair of freshly laundered denims and stepped into them. The waistband was just skimming over his bare buttocks when he heard a slight gasp behind him. After buttoning himself together, he turned, expecting to have sent her running.
She was still there. Her eyes glittered, sapphire-bright, as her gaze rose from bared toes to bare belly, to his chest and finally to his face. He was still dripping wet, the towel hanging forgotten off one shoulder.
“I’ll do that.”
Boldly, she took the towel and stepped behind him, blotting the beads from his back. Then the loosely woven fabric began to move up and down, side to side, charting the broad terrain of his back and shoulders in slow strokes. It was all he could do to stand still for it. The towel moved down one brawny arm as her palm slid down the other. A shudder rode through him, settling heavy and low.
Patrice eased around until they stood toe-to-toe. She didn’t look up into his eyes but instead focused on the vee his collarbone made in front, where she could see his sudden, jerky swallowing. She pushed the towel across his chest, fascinated by the moisture
glistening in the bronze hair curled upon it. Her breathing labored apace with his. Then, the towel dropped to cover his bare feet.
Her hands continued their gliding exploration over taut muscle and tight midriff. Her fingertips trembled when they reached the band of his britches, then moved on brazenly over the jut of his hipbones, down the bulge of his thighs, circling around and up to flatten upon the firm contour of his rump.
She shivered hard as his palms rubbed up the sleeves of her jacket, capping her shoulders briefly before sliding up to encase the slender column of her throat. He lifted her chin with his thumbs, her gaze resisting for a moment, then rising as well.
He was lost the instant he looked into the pooling blue of her eyes. He bent.
Patrice stretched up for his kiss, moaning softly at the reacquainting pressure, opening quickly to let heat and wetness wash away the last of her reluctance. Her questions, her sense of injury could wait. This could not. Not another second.
They stood as almost a minute passed by, mouths locked, bodies pressed close, hearts thrusting in fervor and trepidation of what might or might not follow. Finally, Reeve twisted away. His hands shook where they supported her upturned face. His breathing was all out of control. For a long moment, they stood, joined only where her fragile jaw filled his palms.
“Reeve—”
His fingertips brushed over her lips, quieting her as he said, “Thank you for coming. Maybe we’d better finish this conversation later.” When it wasn’t so dark, when he wasn’t half-dressed.
When he wasn’t feeling so unsettled inside, he needed something to hold on to. “I want to do this right.”
“Do what?” she breathed, light-headed from his touch, lost to his intensity.
“Court you.”
Her heart skipped a beat, then hurried on frantically.
“I should talk to Deacon first—”
“No,” she interrupted. She knew how Deacon would react. Her eyes squeezed shut as his tormented words replayed in her mind, calling upon her loyalty, her responsibility; those things that meant all to him and suddenly, not nearly as much to her as the promise of love. How could she pledge her soul to her brother at the forfeiture of her heart. Her heart was here, with this man, as it always had been. That truth was now crystal-clear. Deacon and his demands of duty were not her future. Reeve was. She took a breath and finished with a firm, “Talk to me first.”
