Through the Looking Glass (12 page)

"He's tone-deaf."

After looking at her for a minute, Gideon rubbed a vague ache between his eyes with his thumb, murmuring, "You know, for a while there—a brief while—you hardly said anything absurd at all. Well, I mean, it was all absurd, but it made a crazy kind of sense. Except for that stuff about a murderer's hiding out in the carnival and slinking around guarding his secreted treasure. That was absurd, but you made it sound so reasonable that I actually thought it made sense."

Maggie reached over to pat his hand where it rested on the table. "I think you're losing it."

Still staring at her, he caught her hand between both his and said in the same lucid tone,

"You remember what I said about a hundred years ago? The part about my being a patient man, and being willing to wait until I got all my questions answered?"

"It sounds familiar, yes."

"That was a reasonable thing for me to say, wasn't it?"

She nodded.

He nodded as well. "And that's what's wrong with it. Maggie, my date was just crashed by a cat. Is that reasonable?"

She cleared her throat. "I suppose not."

"I'm sleeping in a tent in the middle of Kansas. A tent I had to buy because I had to bend my knees in the first one. A tent pitched in the middle of a carnival, which, to put it mildly, is a little strange even for carnivals. Is that reasonable?"

Maggie used her free hand to prop up her chin. "Well, when you put it like that..."

"I'm involved with a woman who has the eyes of a siren, the face of an angel, and a mind like a labyrinth. She offers absurd answers to the most logical questions, and changes mood right in front of my eyes, and I know she's a bit mad; I just don't know to what degree. She's trying to find one maniac in the middle of a rolling asylum, because the maniac pushed her cousin into a well."

"Gideon—"

"Yes, I know you think it's reasonable. But it isn't. Nothing in this entire situation is reasonable, not even our conversations, and certainly not our relationship. I'm a rational man; I know reason when I see it. There isn't any. So why am I trying to be reasonable?"

Maggie cleared her throat. "The need to impose order on chaos?" she offered.

He looked briefly distracted, even interested in a mild way, but then shook his head. "Control is an illusion, I know that. Order is an illusion. With the possible exception of mathematical formulas, there's no such thing as pure logic."

"And so?" she murmured.

"Back to my original question.
Why am I trying to be reasonable and logical?"

"Because you're a rational man?"
Maggie had the somewhat unnerving feeling that whatever sense of control she'd believed she possessed in this situation with Gideon had definitely been an illusion.

"But that's where I went wrong. I can't live in your world and play by the rules in mine."

"Meaning?"

"Let's dance," he said.

Pulled gently from her chair and led out onto a deserted dance floor, Maggie said, "You didn't answer my question."

Gideon drew her into his arms, sending an automatically wary glance back toward their table to make sure Leo was sitting blamelessly in his chair. Looking down at Maggie, he said, "I've decided to play by
your rules, that's
all."

"My rules?
I didn't know I had any."

"That," he said, "is what's so nice about it. I had no idea rules were so confining. Why didn't you tell me?"

"I needed an edge," she said involuntarily.

He eyes gleamed. "Well, we're on equal ground now. No rules. Well just play it by ear."

Maggie wanted to think of a way to argue him out of his position, mostly because as long as he'd stood by his gentlemanly patience she had indeed had an edge. But now, if he truly intended to let rationality and patience go by the board, she didn't stand a chance. All her talk of chemical reactions and getting questions answered wasn't going to hold him at arm's length now.

Rules said that you took your time and did things in their proper order; without rules, all that was left to follow were your instincts.

And how on earth could she fight when her instincts demanded she respond to his instincts?

She couldn't. From the moment he had said I want you with such deep conviction in his tone of voice, she had known that fate had stepped into her life. She had waited for the right man, knowing he would come. And he had. All her uncertainties and wariness couldn't hide that from her.

To give
herself
to a man was to give all that she was, she knew. It wasn't true of all women, but it was of her. She thought that Gideon could love her if he'd let himself, but if it never happened, it still wouldn't change her feelings.

When that certain knowledge rose in her, Maggie characteristically turned away from uncertainty. It was done; there was no going back now. And she knew love was something one treated with respect, something fierce and powerful that left its mark wherever it passed.

"You've gone very quiet," he murmured, pulling her a little closer as the beat of the music slowed.

Maggie slid her arms up around his neck and sighed as his hands settled at her hips. He would be rather fun without the rule book, she thought. There was a cockeyed sense of humor inside him, probably set aside at an early age but still there. If Gideon gave himself half a chance, she believed he would make a pretty fair chameleon himself. She hoped they'd get a chance to explore the possibility.

In the meantime, however, this impulsive conclusion of his was dangerous. Not the conclusion itself—but the timing. And she had to warn him of consequences, because she didn't believe he was ready to accept them. He had to know; it was only fair. Perhaps he wanted only passion for the time being, but he had to know it would change them both.

Conversationally, she said, "I was just thinking that this whole situation is worse than you know."

"In what way?" he asked warily.

"I'm afraid I love you."

Gideon stopped moving and stared down at her. He looked a little bemused, but something was kindling in his eyes. "You're afraid you love me? We met yesterday."

"That hardly matters."

"You're afraid you love me," he repeated slowly.

"Well, yes. If it were mere passion, there wouldn't really be a problem, because that's a fleeting thing. When it was over, you'd go back to San Francisco and I'd go to Richmond, and that would be it. But love is different. So I thought I'd better warn you."

"Warn me?"

Maggie's smile was a little rueful. "Gideon, my family's unusual in a number of ways. Strange ways, I suppose. There are certain patterns in our lives, almost as if somebody planned it all out. And one of the patterns is that there has never been an unhappy love affair or a divorce since before the turn of the century. It seems to be stamped in our cells to fall in love only once... and with the right person."

Gideon had forgotten about the music. Holding her in his arms, staring down at her, he asked carefully, "What are you saying, Maggie?"

Her expression was entirely serious now, her eyes direct and sober. Her soft, childlike voice was certain. "What I'm saying is that once we become lovers, you're mine. You'll belong to me in the same way that I’ll belong to you.
Not a summer fling
, not an affair, nothing temporary. That's one of the answers you were looking for, Gideon. In my world, love is forever."

After a moment he began moving again to the music. She danced very well, he noted idly. And she fit him very well; there was nothing awkward in how they moved together, nothing uncertain or clumsy. He wondered if their lovemaking would be so gracefully complete.

"I would say you can't be serious," he said finally. "But I think you are."

"Oh, yes, I'm serious."

"And if I said that all I want is an affair?"

"It wouldn't matter." Her voice was serene now, her fey eyes smiling gently up at him. "You could leave me, of course, once it was over. Walk away and never look back. And I wouldn't chase after you. But you'd still be mine. Other women would know it. And so would you."

"Witchcraft?" he said dryly, about half serious.

"Love.
Real love changes you, brands you inside and out. Whether you feel it or someone else feels it for you doesn't matter; you're still branded."

"Maggie, is this some kind of new strategy? I mean, do you expect me to run screaming into the night?"

"I don't expect anything from you except honesty, because that's exactly what I'm offering you. I didn't plan it, and the timing could have been better, but there doesn't seem to be much I can do about that now. I love you, Gideon."

"It was much pleasanter at home," thought poor Alice,

"
when
one wasn't always growing larger and smaller,

I almost wish I hadn't gone down that rabbit-hole—

and
yet—and yet—it's rather curious, you know,

this
sort of life!"

Gideon didn't know what to say. He gazed down into her face, and it was the face that had in so short a time become so fascinating to him, the face that haunted even his dreams.
The face that was, now, serene and nakedly vulnerable, unmasked, unguarded.

Innocent.

My God, he thought, she can't be—"You've never been in love before?" he asked slowly.

"No."

"Then... that is... you've never—?"

"No," she answered steadily.

As he'd told her earlier, he hadn't really thought much beyond today. To become her lover—yes, he wanted that. He wanted that so badly that his first impulse was to ignore her warning. But in his life, professional and personal, every risk tended to be weighed carefully before an action was taken. And even though he had decided to play by her lack of rules, he couldn't ignore his basic intellectual way of viewing and dealing with the world.

To be her first lover...
He'd heard it said that a woman never forgot her first lover; was that what she meant? They would both be marked by the taking of innocence? No, he thought.
Nothing so simple.

"You're saying I’ll hurt you," he said. The music stopped then. Appropriate, Gideon thought.

"No, that isn't what I'm saying." Maggie stepped back and away from him, then turned and preceded him from the dance floor. When they were sitting at their table again, she reached over to pat Leo's drowsy head. "He's half asleep. The milk, I guess."

"Maggie, look at me."

She did, smiling. "I'm not saying you'll hurt me, Gideon.
At least not intentionally.
I'm just saying that, for me, you're forever. And despite my flaky appearance, I'm quite conventional about some things. Romantic, I suppose. I've waited this long because no man was forever. You are. There won't be anyone else for me."

"You can't know that."

"Of course I can. I told you. We only love once. Like wolves and hawks, we mate for life. If you consider that a burden, then you'd better go back to San Francisco now."

"You're just trying to get me away from the carnival for a while," he said, hoping that was it.

Her smile faded, and she shook her head slightly. "No. And I don't want you to think it. Gideon, finding Merlin's killer is important to me, but you're more important. I don't want you to leave, even though I don't like the fact that somebody's watching you, and I'd probably have an easier job of it if you did go. But I'm talking about the two of us, not what's going on around us. And I'm not playing a game, with or without rules. I'm simply telling you the truth."

"That you love me."

She nodded. "That I love you."

He eyed her. "Will I sleep in your wagon tonight?"

^'If you want to."

"In your bed?"

"I'd like that," she said simply, with all the trusting anticipation of innocent longing.

Gideon yanked his gaze away from her and stared at his empty glass. He thought of ordering another drink, but discarded the impulse. Dutch courage wasn't going to help, he decided. "You are the most contrary woman I've ever met," he muttered. "Yesterday, you said we were moving too fast. Or I was."

"That was yesterday."

"I see. Today, you love me, and you say it's forever."

"It is."

He sighed and glanced at his watch.
Odd.
Minutes ago, he thought he had figured out how to respond to Maggie and her world—throw out the rule book and act on impulse. But all his impulses seemed to be scrambled. Baffled and more than a little unnerved, he was back where he'd started and with an additional feeling of responsibility because it meant so much to her. How much did it mean to him?

She was offering what he'd said he wanted—for them to be lovers. Yet, at the same time, she was saying that it was serious for her, that it had to be, because she loved him. She was making a commitment.

Gideon felt more than a little wary of her prediction that her love would change him, mark him forever. If any other woman had said it, he doubted he'd believe it at all; he'd consider it only words, nice romantic words that sounded lovely and faded in the face of reality. But Maggie had said those words, said them with utter certainty. With no tinge of possessiveness in her voice she'd said that he would belong to her, and she to him. She meant it, believed it.

He had a feeling he should too.

So he couldn't just reach for what he wanted without counting the cost to Maggie... and perhaps to himself. He owed it to them both to be completely aware of the consequences. If he couldn't believe at least that they had a future together, then he had no right to be in her bed.

"Gideon?"

"Our table should be ready," he said abruptly. "Ill take Leo back out to the car, and then we can eat."

"Fine," she said agreeably.

Tina was sitting on the steps of her wagon when Gideon's rented car returned to the encampment. It was nearly nine, but summer's dusk provided enough light to see clearly. She watched them get
out,
saw Leo bound from the backseat.