The Splendour Falls (39 page)

The morning dawned bright and cheery, completely contrary to my mood. There was a shade on my window, but I'd forgotten to pull it when I'd finally fallen into bed the night before. Earlier that morning, really. Gigi burrowed under the covers to get away from the eastern glare, but I had pressing business for the day. Paula had reminded me when she came up to do her bed check. It was Sunday, and we were going to church.

I wouldn't have been able to get out of it even if I'd been the poster girl for spiritual and mental health. It was just what you did here.

So I stumbled to the bathroom, still messy from my quick wash the night before. Since I'd rolled in the mud in my last pair of pj's, Paula had lent me a nightgown. Apparently my practical cousin was a closet Southern belle. The white cotton gown had deep ruffles around the neck and it ended in another froth of
ruffle below my knees. The sleeves kept slipping down, and I had to push them up, over and over, as I washed my face.

The image in the mirror was almost a stranger's. Instead of my neat ballerina bun, or even the scrunchie that usually held my hair while I slept, dark tangles fell around my shoulders. My face had more colour than usual, including a dusting of freckles across my nose and cheeks, and faint purple shadows under my eyes. The hollows in my cheeks were less pronounced. All those desserts were beginning to show.

I brushed my teeth and headed back to my room to dress. The door hit someone as I flung it open, and my nerves – complacent with sleep and the mundane tasks of the morning – jolted to stinging alert.

God, I was jumpy. The muffled and distinctly British curse assured me that, whoever was in the hall, it wasn't the Colonel suddenly made flesh.

Paula's reminder of my appointment with the reverend had nudged my mood to the irate side of the scale. But when I peered round the door and saw Rhys doubled over, clutching his already abused nose, I momentarily slid towards apologetic sympathy. ‘Did I hurt you?'

‘Yes, sod it all.'

He didn't sound like he was going to die, so I let myself feel some satisfaction at getting back at him for ratting me out about the river. ‘Good.'

He straightened, giving his nose a last experimental wiggle. ‘And my face was just getting better.'

That was true. The bruises had lightened to greenish
yellow, though the skin under his left eye was still a bit purple. Strange that his face had healed so much faster than his chest. If the door had hit him in the sternum, I'd have actually felt bad about it.

When he finally lowered his hand, his eyes swept over me, and he started to laugh. ‘What the blazes are you wearing?'

I narrowed my gaze. ‘Don't start with me. It's your fault I'm having bed checks and parochial counselling. If I wind up at the shrink—'

I caught myself. I'd said too much, spoken my fear aloud. Guilt flashed, just for a moment, in Rhys's purple-shadowed eyes. ‘I am sorry about that.' He did sound contrite, but he ruined it by adding, ‘But did you really think you were going to avoid any hassle from Paula?'

Hearing someone crossing the hall downstairs, I lowered my voice to an angry hiss. ‘You could have helped me try.'

‘Sylvie?' Paula called my name from the foyer. ‘Are you up?'

‘Just on my way to the bathroom, Paula.'

‘Do you want some breakfast before we go?'

‘No, ma'am.' There was a disapproving pause. Refusing food was always the wrong answer. ‘Just some juice, maybe.'

‘Be down in twenty minutes.' She called me to heel like I called Gigi. The difference was, I would actually obey, even if I didn't like it.

Rhys had stood silent during this whole exchange. I grabbed his arm, pulled him into the bathroom and
shut the door. His eyebrows climbed in exaggerated shock. ‘You Yankee girls are really very forward.'

‘Shut up.' I didn't want to be charmed by his humour or distracted by the way his eyes followed my movements as I pushed up the ridiculous sleeves of my borrowed nightgown.

For God's sake, Sylvie. Focus.

‘The night before you left,' I said, ‘you let on there was something going on here.'

That seemed to startle him, before his expression turned wary. ‘Did I say that?'

‘ “Strange dealings afoot”.' I quoted it firmly, because lately I'd discovered a lot about evasive phrasing. ‘And seriously, Rhys, you have no poker face.'

He allowed a rueful grimace. ‘It used to be better. Before I met you.'

This relatively straightforward admission sent the undisciplined part of me – which I wasn't sure existed before I came to Alabama – rocketing skyward in delight. It struck me, as he seemed to be focusing intently on my left eyebrow to keep his eyes above my neck, that it wasn't only
him
getting under
my
skin.

Don't think about skin, you twit. Focus.

I forced a warning into my voice. ‘I'm not a helpless princess or a moron, Rhys. I can find out what's going on here, if I dig deep enough.'

My I'm-playing-hardball tone snapped his gaze to mine, and the muscle in his jaw clenched for just a second before he lifted his uninjured eyebrow with deliberate composure. ‘How are you going to manage that? It sounds like you're going to have some trouble finding unsupervised time in the future.'

Crap. He was right. I jammed my fists on my hips and glared up at him. ‘Dammit, Rhys. Why do you get off the hook while I'm stuck with a nanny? You were out there with me.'

His mouth twisted in a self-mocking half-smile. ‘Because I'm the knight and you're the maiden, and life is not fair.'

At least he admitted it, but it still made me mad. ‘Is that what this is? Be a good girl and don't stick your nose in the menfolk's business?'

All humour disappeared. ‘I'd tell you the same thing if you were a guy. Don't muck around where you don't know how deep the water is.'

‘You don't think I know how to swim?' I grabbed the door handle and twisted, throwing a cold look over my shoulder. ‘Don't let the Victorian ruffles fool you.'

His hand landed on the door, keeping it closed. As irritated as I was, my heart still stuttered, and not in an entirely bad way. I turned in the space allowed by his arm, and pressed my back against the door, more to keep myself from doing anything stupid than from fear – or hope – that he would. Do something stupid, I mean.

He must have read my thoughts, or maybe I had no poker face either, because his eyes dropped to my mouth, then moved back up to hold my gaze. ‘Stay out of the woods, Sylvie. That's all I'm asking.' At the ‘Oh, really' arch of my brows, he added, ‘And stay away from Shawn and the teen council.'

There was a warning there, and worry. Chauvinism, maybe, but also genuine fear for my safety. ‘I
can't,' I said, dogged, but a bit daunted, too. ‘I'm supposed to go to the Catfish Festival this afternoon.'

‘Tell Paula you're sick.'

‘I can't,' I repeated, a little plaintively. ‘If I don't talk to Reverend Watkins, she'll take me to a shrink. Better Shawn and catfish than a psychiatrist and a couch.'

He grimaced, satisfyingly rueful. ‘I
am
sorry about that.'

My irritation flared with the reminder. ‘You should be.'

‘I only thought she'd keep closer watch on you, keep your nose out of trouble.'

We were standing so close, I had to tilt my head to meet his eye. How could I be feeling so many things at once? My blood zipped through my veins, thrilled at his nearness, infuriated by his evasion. His scent, unique and exhilarating and natural, filled my head, and I had to force myself to stay on track.

‘It's the teen council, isn't it?' I watched his face as I asked my nonquestion. ‘They're doing something.'

He struggled for a moment, then dropped his arm. ‘I can't say.'

‘Can't or won't?' I snapped, chilled by his withdrawal.

‘Both,' he admitted, sounding genuinely regretful at the distance he put between us. ‘You'd better go. Unless you want to tell the reverend you're late because you were ambushing blokes in your nightgown.'

I gave an indelicate snort, letting him end the inquisition because he had a point. Any minute
now, Paula would be jerking my leash. ‘Right. Because all this old-fashioned splendour is so tempting.'

He looked to the ceiling, as if for patience, then back at me. ‘Don't be obtuse, princess. It's only because I'm a gentleman that I haven't let you know that I find Victorian ruffles insanely hot.'

I'd think he was teasing me – except that Rhys really didn't have any poker face at all. So I made my second prudent retreat in less than twelve hours, this time, if I let myself admit it, more delighted than dismayed.

S
ince I was in church anyway, I thanked God that Addie had spent the night with Kimberley, and was not around to witness the Incredible River Disaster and its aftermath. The morning was difficult enough with only the regular amount of speculation and staring.

The antique pews were not very comfortable. Davis backsides had suffered the same wooden torture for generations, and I wondered if it was any easier with voluminous skirts and petticoats. On one hand, you might have more padding under your bum, but on the other, you'd have to deal with a corset. In an un-
airconditioned Alabama summer. I decided I'd rather take my own miseries.

My imagination ran away with the thought of corsets and crinolines, and suddenly I was picturing a church full of a starched and buttoned congregation, sweltering through an hour-long sermon. Had Hannah sat here, laced into her whalebone corset, lilac-scented handkerchief dabbing at her modest décolletage? Was
he
here? The guy? The one for whom she would rather sleep with the fishes than sleep without? The guy who had knocked her up and left her?

I glanced across to where Shawn Maddox sat with his father. Naturally the Maddox pew was right across the aisle from the Davis one. Up front, of course.

Shawn, wearing the male-under-thirty uniform of button-down shirt, necktie and khaki trousers, seemed to sense my gaze and turned his head slightly to smile at me. How did he
do
that? I didn't trust him, wasn't even sure I liked him in the normal way, let alone the way everyone in town seemed to expect me to. I'd just been – well, it would be hard to call it flirting, but no other term fitted – with Rhys in the bathroom at Bluestone Hill. But I
still
found myself yanking my gaze forward and blushing like I was a nineteenth-century girl caught staring at a young gentleman in church. I wished I had a fan so I could cool my blush before the rumours got any worse.

Once Reverend Watkins had given the benediction, Paula slipped out through the side to give him the
scoop on my latest adventure. I dawdled to give her time, and wasn't terribly surprised when Shawn appeared in front of me as I exited the pew.

‘Wow,' said Shawn. ‘You clean up nice.'

‘Gee, thanks.' My tone was dry, but I appreciated the compliment, even from Shawn, whose praise I'd realized needed to be cut by half. I was wearing a skirt for the first time since having my cast removed. I lived in jeans, which hid the bumps and craters of the scars where my tibia had broken through my skin, and the pins that held it while it healed. But Paula had put her foot down on wearing jeans to church.

‘What time should I pick you up for the shindig?' he asked.

‘I need to talk to Reverend Watkins about something, and then I'd like to go home and change.' It occurred to me that I could still come down with a sudden, violent stomach bug, and I left myself some wiggle room. ‘I could ask Paula to bring me to the festival later—'

‘Oh no.' Shawn flashed that grin, full wattage and full of open appreciation. ‘I'm making the most of this date. I'll see you in an hour and a half ?'

‘Make it two.'

‘Done!' he said, and with another broad grin, hurried off.