The Outcast (31 page)
Unaware that her brother witnessed everything from the dark vantage of the parlor window.
It took every ounce of her will to get up the next morning, to leave the fantasy of dreams and go down to breakfast as if nothing had happened. She’d washed vigorously, nearly peeling off skin to make sure Reeve’s scent didn’t linger. Weary and sore, it was torture just to walk upright, but she managed. If she could survive Deacon’s probing look, she could get through anything.
He already sat at the table buttering a biscuit. The knife paused in mid-stroke. Slowly, his gaze lifted, touching on hers, flickering back down before any identifiable emotion registered. He continued slathering on jam, the pressure he applied breaking the biscuit into crumbles within his palm. He let it fall
to his plate and wiped his hands off on his napkin.
She settled shakily into her chair across from him and reached for the coffee just as he did. They exchanged a quick look, and Deacon picked up the pot, filling her cup, then his. She could feel the tension in what he wasn’t saying.
Hannah swept in bestowing a bright smile on both of them. “I never sleep so well as when under my own roof,” she declared after kissing Patrice’s brow and allowing Deacon to seat her.
“In your own bed,” Deacon agreed without betraying more.
He knew.
Patrice went cold inside as she sipped the scalding coffee. It took both hands to steady the cup. She waited for him to say more, but his silence was worse.
“I’m going into town this morning to pick up our new dresses from alteration. Patrice, can you be ready in an hour?” Then Hannah’s cool hand pressed to her forehead. “You look a bit peaked. Perhaps you should stay home and rest.”
Rest? At home, alone, with a brother who knew she’d been in a man’s bed?
“I’m tired is all. I’m sure I’ll feel more myself after breakfast.” She supplied a wan smile and risked a glance across the table.
Perhaps he didn’t know where she’d been or who with. Maybe he’d seen her tiptoeing to her room all breathless and blowzy. If he knew it was Reeve, wouldn’t he be on his way to kill him even now instead of calmly eating his grits?
She watched him, growing more agitated by the moment, trying to read something telling into his measured movements.
Finally, Hannah pushed back from the table with a dainty dab at her lips. “I must be getting ready. Unless you’d rather I stayed home, dear?”
Patrice glanced up guiltily to murmur, “No, Mama. There’s no need for that.”
“If she needs anything, I can take care of it.”
Deacon’s cool offer stirred a prickle of gooseflesh.
“Really, Mama, I’m fine. Just let me finish here.” Patrice studied her plain coffee cup, lingering over it, praying Deacon would leave the room without calling her on her betrayal of his trust.
Don’t break my heart.
It was one thing to discard that wish when in a lover’s arms and quite another to do so within the home he’d struggled to rebuild to keep his family safe.
Deacon sipped at his brew. She fought not to cringe beneath the bore of his stare. Perspiration trickled under her collar, and her breaths grew shallow, fast, as she waited for his next move with all the dread of a small animal in a snare, unable to escape and almost looking forward to the killing blow to relieve the Suspense. She jumped when his chair scraped back. Tremors rose up in tiny eddies as she tracked his progress around the table by the sound of his footfalls.
In the next moments, he had the power to destroy her life.
He stopped directly behind her. Carefully, she set down her cup, gripping her hands in her lap so he wouldn’t see them shake with tension.
Her heart gave a leap as his knuckles grazed her cheek.
“You do feel a little warm. I hope it’s nothing serious.”
She closed her eyes, hysteria swelling, threatening
to take hold. If he knew, why didn’t he say so? Why did he keep her twisting in dread, trembling in fear of his condemnation? For the sake of torture? To grind in the fact of his absolute control over her future? To make certain she understood how in error she was to defy him? Confession pressed at her tightly sealed lips, pushed by the need to apologize, anything to earn a reprieve from the calculated stalking perfected while he played the deadly game of espionage.
“I’m sure I’ll be fine, Deacon. Thank you for your concern.”
“I thought I made it clear last night how important you are to me. I hope you were listening. I hope you heard more than just the words.” His dramatic pause left her close to weeping. “Patrice, is there anything you need to tell me?”
She twisted in her chair, lifting her guileless gaze to his. “No, Deacon. Nothing.”
For the longest moment, he just looked down upon her, seeing right through her deception, right to the lying core of her soul. A flicker of emotion touched his features, so briefly she almost missed it. On anyone else’s face, she’d have thought it compassion, but she didn’t think her brother knew what it was to feel another’s pain.
“Are you sure, Patrice?”
What else could she do?
She smiled up at him, said, “Very sure, thank you.”
His expression remained unchanged from its cool detachment. The words,
I’m sorry, forgive me
, were so close to escaping, as was the need to feel the tight security of his arms as she poured out all her woes. She hesitated.
Then he told her quietly, “You can trust me, Patrice. I understand more than you know.”
Because it was herself and her own faltering emotions she couldn’t trust, she let his offer pass in silence.
His hand dropped to her shoulder, resting there without pressure. But to Patrice, the weight of it was spirit-crushing.
“Patrice, you said it yourself. I’m not our father.”
With that curious claim, he left her. No accusations. No demands. Just that opening for her to turn to him. And the veiled promise that he might not judge as harshly as he had been judged.
She sat at her family’s table for a long while, shivering and uncertain, trying to decide where to turn with her troubles. She loved her brother fiercely, but she knew where he stood concerning Reeve. He’d made that very clear. There would be no calling Deacon back once he was set on the path of family honor. She couldn’t be sure if he would force her to wed the man who’d taken her prized purity, or if he’d choose simply to kill him. She could lose either way.
She’d lost so much already to the whim of war and her own capricious nature. She’d had the promise of security torn out from under her twice; with the death of her father, with the sacrifice of Jonah. Deacon was smart and loyal and coldly cunning. He would always see to their protection—always. But Reeve, with his quixotic moods and unspoken agendas, could she afford to risk her heart, her future, on him? He’d given no guarantees. She blushed to remember the way she’d wailed his name in the throes of pleasure. But wouldn’t she find the same pinnacles of delight with any man she might marry?
She considered Tyler Fairfax, replacing Reeve’s bed with his. The sharp green fire of his eyes instead Reeve’s deep secretive depths, the grace of his sinewy form rather than abruptness of Reeve’s hard contours. She tried to imagine Tyler’s mouth, his hands, his body meshing with hers, driving her to the point of abandon and beyond.
She gasped and jumped out of her chair, greatly disturbed and cold all over. No, not the same. Not with anyone else. She rubbed her palms over her arms to restore their warmth, the intensity of her reaction upsetting her.
There was a knock at their front door. Wearily, she went to answer it, then paused in the foyer when she saw Deacon already there, opening the door to the last person she expected to see on their doorstep.
Reeve Garrett.
She watched the stiffness spread through her brother’s stance like ice across a shallow pond.
“Garrett. Is this a social call?”
Reeve’s gaze touched upon Patrice’s pallid features but didn’t linger. “No.”
“Then what kind of business brings you here this time of the morning?” Challenge bristled in his tone even as hospitality demanded the door stay open.
“My father’s.” He bent to pick up a huge box and strode inside with it, heading straight for the dining room, passing Patrice without comment. Patrice and Deacon followed, both of them wary of him and each other.
Reeve had the box on the table and the lid off. Patrice gasped as he unwrapped the first piece of elegant stemware.
“The Squire wanted Patrice to have these. Specified
it in his will. I’m afraid the set is short one of the glasses.” He glanced at Patrice, then went on in the same brisk clip. “Anyway, here it all is. Do whatever you want with it.”
Patrice came close to peek into the box. A poignant pleasure constricted her words as she placed her hands lovingly on the contents. “Thank you, Reeve.”
She looked up at him, gratitude glimmering in her eyes. His narrowed into unreadable slits as he took a step back, increasing the distance between them.
“No need to thank me.”
His tone had the same effect as a hard shove. Her emotions staggered, taken aback. Was he afraid she meant to cry defilement while Deacon stood right behind her? Did he expect her to come undone because the attraction between them pressed in like the sweltering summer heat, making her light-headed and oddly breathless?
He should have known better.
“Thank you for the extra burden on your time for delivering them, is what I meant.”
His mouth formed a thin pale line, scarcely moving as he said, “No trouble at all.”
Finding no excuse to prolong his visit, Reeve nodded to her, then to Deacon with the same crisp formality. He’d reached the door when Hannah hurried down the stairs, a ship under full sail in her billowy flounces.
“Why, Mr. Garrett! I didn’t know you’d come to visit.” A quick glance chastised her children as she extended her hand.
Reeve took it up gallantly. “ ‘Morning, ma’am. It
wasn’t a visit. Jus’ tying up some loose ends from the squire’s estate.”
Hannah’s gaze went soft with sympathy. “Poor dear. How hard this must be for you to handle. I truly wanted to express my condolences yesterday, but what with the weather and the shock and all … I hope you understood?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He smiled, flustered by her kind attentions.
“Deacon said he spoke to you on the behalf of our family, but I did want to add my own sentiments.”
Reeve’s gaze slid to Deacon’s impenetrable facade.
Patrice chilled. Deacon never said anything. Her brother hurried his family out of the Glade without a word of regret, without a syllable of thanks. The thought of such an intentional insult would devastate their mother. And Reeve knew it.
But he turned back to Hannah with his most humble smile. “Yes, ma’am. Your son was very gracious, and I thank you for your sincerity. I took much comfort in it.”
There wasn’t a touch of cynicism in his words, no reason for Hannah to suspect he told anything but the truth.
“I’ve got to go now, ma’am. Thank you again for presiding over things at the Glade like you did. I won’t forget your kindness.” He kissed her soft hand to prove he meant it. And his slashing stare at Deacon said he wouldn’t be forgetting anything else, either. “Deacon. Miz Patrice.”
Reeve let his smile uncramp once he stepped out onto the porch. Patrice answered things for him quite nicely with her stony silence.
He’d spent restless hours anxiously conceiving a way to see her before he went out of his mind. He remembered the glassware, the way her look had gone all dewy and dreamy over it and he’d seized upon that convenient explanation for his visit. He’d promised to give her time and didn’t mean to pressure her. Yet he feared time would push a distance between them that he’d never breach again. He thought she might need reassurance and a show of support. And he had to know where he stood.
The minute he’d stepped over the threshold of Sinclair Manor, he’d known the truth of it. Patrice cowered behind her prim and proper manners, afraid to say boo to their feelings for one another. As if ashamed. As if she was sorry. As if she’d rather die than have her starchy brother know she’d been with a man of no consequence, a man like Reeve Garrett.
Feeling the fool for letting himself believe in her again, he stabbed back his heels, and Zeus lunged forward, carrying him swiftly off Sinclair property.
Too cowardly to endure another moment of pretense in her brother’s company, Patrice retreated to her room, only to have her sanctuary disturbed by her mother’s gentle presence. Hannah settled on the bed beside her and after taking up her daughter’s hand, asked, “What’s wrong, dear? And don’t tell me you’re ill, unless it’s a sickness of heart.”
The opportunity was too important to let slip away.
“Mama, were you and Daddy in love when you married?”
Hannah gave her a startled glance, then quickly recovered. “We hardly knew one another, dear. Of course, I knew who he was, everyone knew the Virginia Sinclairs. We’d danced a quadrille or two at summer parties, but we’d never shared any conversation or unchaperoned time together. Those times
forbade such intimacies between young people. Our fathers considered us a good match, and arrangements were made. That’s how things were done then.”
“So you married a stranger?”
Hannah laughed softly. “Heavens, I knew all about your father. He was ambitious, protective, honorable, hardworking. All the men were—at least those worth knowing. They had values and would not compromise them. So you see, I knew exactly what I was getting. I only hope your father was not disappointed.”
“In you? Oh, Mother, how could you think so?”
“My family had tolerant views. He and my father often argued. Avery didn’t like his opinions challenged, especially in public. I made the mistake, shortly after we wed, of expressing myself on the slavery issue at the governor’s tea.”
“What did Father do?”
“Nothing, dear. He didn’t speak to me for weeks and pretended not to hear me or even acknowledge my presence in the room. Looking back, it all seems so silly, but then, I was young and terrified of being sent home to my father in disgrace.”
