Wild Heart (10 page)

"Maybe in the Middle Ages it healed. But medicine's come a long way since then." But she thought of all the scars on his body, and of her father's journal note that the Ontario Man's general health was "excellent." She felt less sure of herself, and not quite so smug about modern medicine.

"There, I'm finished."

He held up his bandaged hand, studying it from different angles. "I'm better with my other hand. It's good that this is this hand."

"You're right-handed," she explained. "People are either right-handed or left-handed."

"Yes, I know."

"Oh," she muttered, coloring. "Sorry."

"Why are you sorry?"

"Because I don't always know what you already know. I never mean to patronize you, Michael, but sometimes I'm sure I do."

"I don't know what 'patronize' means."

"It means ... to condescend."

He smiled.

"To act as if I know more than you."

Now they were both smiling. "But you
do
know more than me. So you can never
patronize
me."

She laughed, embarrassment gone. How fortunate they all were that the Ontario Man was so good-natured. "I've brought you some tea. Shall we take it outside?"

They sat on the front stoop of the bungalow, she in the doorway, he on the step below her, the tray between them. The china pot contained hot chocolate, not tea, and Sydney wondered if Inger had made a mistake. "Don't you like tea?" she asked.

He made a terrible face. "Muddy water," he said, pretending to shudder.

There were two cups. That struck her as odd until she recalled the look of disappointment on the maid's face.
Hm,
she thought, pouring chocolate, no longer hot, into a cup for Michael, and watching him add one, two,
three
more teaspoonsful of. sugar. Ignoring the little cheese sandwiches, he went straight for the cakes, devouring exactly half of them in short order.

She poured herself a half cup of tepid chocolate and leaned one shoulder against the doorpost. "I have some news. I think you'll like it." He looked at her expectantly. "My father's project has been canceled. Stopped. He won't be doing any more experiments on you, at least not like before. He and Charles have finished with you, Michael. It's over."

He set his cup down carefully, not returning her smile. "Then I should go?"

"No! No, not at all, I didn't mean you have to leave. Unless you ..." She girded herself to ask the question. "Do you want to go?"

He studied her for a long time, then looked away without answering.

His black, too-long hair gleamed in the strong sunlight. She wondered how it would feel on her fingers. Sleek and soft. Warm from the sun. "You could have walked away by now," she said quietly. "Today. No one would have known."

A few seconds passed. When he still didn't speak, she put her cup down and cleared her throat, altering the odd, watchful mood between them. "If you want to, you can move into the house. Papa says that will be fine."

"Live in the house?"

"Yes, if you like."

"With you?"

"With my family, yes. Sam would love it."

He continued to ponder. "Would Aunt Estelle love it?"

"If you move in," she said, laughing, "you'll have to remember to call her Miss Winter."

"Miss Winter."

"She's
my
aunt, you see, and Sam's and Philip's. She's not your aunt." Suddenly doubtful, she asked, "Do you know what an aunt is? Aunt Estelle is my father's sister."

"Yes, I know aunts." Then he frowned, as if wondering
how
he knew about aunts. "Will Miss Winter love me to move into the house?"

Sydney hesitated. He was so truthful himself, he discouraged evasion from others. "She . .. she ... no, she probably won't like it. At first." In fact, she might even forbid it. Sydney hadn't considered that possibility until now.

"Because I'm not like others. I'm strange, the lost man. I don't. . ." He ran out of words.

"Fit in," she said faintly.

"Yes. Fit in."

"She might think that. My aunt has a different way of seeing things from most—from some people." She sighed inwardly. Explaining Aunt Estelle to Michael simply wasn't possible; he could have no reference point, absolutely nothing in his experience to compare her to. "You'll understand her better the more you see of her," she said, thinking that was a promise she could make with confidence.

There was a pause.

"I like this," Michael announced, looking around at the green lawn, the trees edging the lake, the blue of the water glittering in the distance through the fluttering leaves. It occurred to Sydney that until she had come here and called to him, today must be the first time he'd been alone, completely alone, since his capture. A man who had spent three-quarters of his life in solitude had not been allowed to be by himself in four months.

She wondered again why he hadn't run away when he'd had the chance, but she didn't ask. She didn't want the subject broached at all, she realized. She was afraid of it.

"Charles is leaving. You can have his room if you like."

He'd been leaning back against the step on his elbows, completely at ease, almost sleepy-eyed. He came to attention at that. "West is going away?"

"Going back to his own place in the city. Now that his work's finished here."

"I can have his room?"

"Yes." She didn't know why she was flushing under his intent stare. "You ... it's bigger than the guest house bedroom. It even has a sitting room. You'll be more comfortable there, I should think. That is, if you want to move. It would be for your convenience. And the servants'. Easier for them, the cleaning and so forth." She finally stopped babbling; she smiled and shrugged.

"Sydney?"

"Yes?"

He played with the bandage on his hand, absorbed in making it lie perfectly flat across the backs of his knuckles.

"What?" she prompted.

"Are you and West still mates?"

Her mouth dropped open. He stole a glance, half smiling at her with that mix of shyness and intensity that always drew her to him. "We aren't mates, Michael. Not the way you mean." Not the way she
thought
he meant. "We never have been. We're friends."

He looked dubious. "But he . . ." Whatever he was going to say, he decided not to say it. To her relief. "Will he come back?"

"Oh, yes. Sometimes."

"Do you like him?"

"Yes, of course.
We're friends."

"Friends," he echoed, frowning. "Like us?"

She laughed helplessly, but he just waited for the answer. "I don't know. Like us? Not exactly. I'm not sure.
Heavens,
Michael, you ask the hardest questions!"

The slow smile spread wider. Whatever he'd gleaned from that incoherent answer, he certainly looked satisfied with it.

* * * * *

The next day, Charles brought her orchids.

He'd finished packing; he was ready to leave. The flowers were a bribe, she knew, because he wanted back in her good graces. They hadn't argued, hadn't spoken much at all about the events of the last few days. But he knew she wasn't pleased with him on any number of scores, and he wanted to mend the rift before he left.

The orchids really were beautiful. He gave them to her in front of Philip, Sam, and Michael, who all happened to be sitting out on the terrace with her; they'd been teaching Michael to play one of Sam's card games. She overdid her excitement with the flowers, exclaiming over them eagerly, thanking Charles profusely. She exaggerated her pleasure for two reasons: she was glad he was leaving, and she felt guilty for being glad.

He wanted to walk down to the lake with her. When he took her hand on the path, she let him keep it. It was the least she could do, and besides, he was leaving in a few minutes. Anyway, they weren't really saying goodbye; she would see him again, often—tomorrow, probably. Still, it felt as if something was ending. In spite of herself, she grew melancholy.
Any
ending was sad, even if you were halfway looking forward to it.

But she had completely misjudged him.

"Sydney, let's not put off our engagement any longer," he said out of the blue, taking both of her hands and pulling her to a stop. They were standing in exactly the same spot from which, weeks ago, she'd first seen the lost man watching from his window.

"What?" she said stupidly.

"Let's tell people we're going to be married. I don't want to wait any longer. You won't make me, will you?"

"But—but we never said we
would
marry. We're
not
engaged."

"Not formally."

"Not at
all."

"Oh, Sydney." He put his arms around her, drawing her closer. "Are you torturing me on purpose?" In spite of herself she softened a little; the thought drifted by that she liked Charles better when she wasn't looking at him. "Please, darling. I'm so in love with you. Say you'll marry me and let me make you happy."

"Oh, Charles," was all she had time to say. He whipped off his bifocals and kissed her on the mouth, and for the first time she felt real, true passion in him. Diverted, she let him go on kissing her and sliding his hands up and down her sides, pressing her body to his most intimately.

When they finally broke apart, she felt breathless. He smiled at her, his lips moist, myopic eyes dancing. "We would be Very happy," he promised in a suggestive whisper. "Say yes, Sydney. Put me out of my misery."

She mentally shook herself out of the momentary sensual trance. "Charles, listen. I'm afraid I've given you false hope. The truth is, I'm not ready to marry again. It's as simple as that."

"Then I'll wait."

"I can't tell you what to feel, but I can warn you that you'll be much happier if you give up the thought of marrying me. Ever marrying me. You know I'm fond of you,
very
fond, but I think we just don't suit."

"You're wrong."

"Maybe so, but this is how I feel. I'm sure of it now, and it's only fair to tell you. It doesn't have to spoil our friendship—"

"It couldn't."

"I'm so glad you feel that way." She looked down at their clasped hands, acknowledging that that was a lie. She had wanted a break between them, and he wasn't going to allow it. But at least the hardest part was over. Thank God.

They strolled back toward the house, Charles glum and silent, she trying not to let her lightheartedness show. On the terrace, Philip got up to shake hands with him. He wouldn't be sorry to see Charles go either, she knew. "Where's Michael?" she asked idly.

Sam looked up from the pyramid he was trying to build out of playing cards. "He went down to the guest house to get his stuff. Didn't you see him?"

She felt her cheeks getting hot. "No, I didn't." But there was no way he could've missed seeing
her.

Unexpected presents, occasioned by nothing but thoughtfulness or kindness, are among life's sweetest surprises. The grateful recipient of such a gift does well to return it in kind.

What did it mean?
In kind.
That he must give
back
the paper and the pencils to Sydney? He asked Sam.

"What does it mean to return a gift in kind?"

Sam didn't know, but he asked Philip and reported back. "It means you give back a gift as good as the one you got."

As good as.
Not the same as. Good, because Michael didn't know how to get more pencils and paper. So. What would he give to Sydney for a present? He thought about it for two days. He almost asked Sam, but he wanted his gift to be one of Sydney's life's sweetest surprises, and Sam would've told her.

The answer came while he was wading in the lake in the hot afternoon. Sam was trying to fly a kite on the shore. Michael didn't want him to see, so he waited until Sam got tired, waved to him, and ran up the path to the house.

He knew the colors and shapes, the speed and the getaway tricks of all the fish. He knew where their bones were and how they tasted. What he didn't know was their names. But Sydney would know, and that was what mattered. Now, what should he catch her? The long, fast, spotted fish would be best, but he hadn't seen any yet in this lake. There were plenty of the ones with little sticks on their backs; they were small and bony, but Sydney might like their red stomachs and green-blue backs. And they had no scales, which made eating them easier. Then he remembered: whatever fish he caught her, she would want to cook it before she ate it. So scales didn't matter.

He decided on one of the fat, silver-blue ones. They had firm white flesh, very good to eat, and they were easy to catch. Too bad there was not a rock here to lie down on and hunt from. Michael walked farther out into the lake and waited.

West had given his gift to Sydney outside, with people all around. Was there a rule about that? Maybe people should be around, but Michael couldn't think of a reason why it had to be outside. He didn't want to wait. He was excited, and besides, it was important for his gift to be fresh. So, just before dinner, while the family was sitting in the room they called the drawing room, he brought Sydney her present.