Secrets Read online

  Brenda Joyce

  Secrets

  CONTENTS

  Part 1

  Chap­ter 1

  Chap­ter 2

  Chap­ter 3

  Chap­ter 5

  Chap­ter 6

  Chap­ter 7

  Chap­ter 8

  Chap­ter 9

  Chap­ter 10

  Chap­ter 11

  Chap­ter 12

  Chap­ter 13

  Chap­ter 14

  Chap­ter 16

  Part Two

  Chap­ter 17

  Chap­ter 18

  Chap­ter 19

  Chap­ter 20

  Chap­ter 21

  Chap­ter 22

  Chap­ter 23

  Chap­ter 24

  Chap­ter 25

  Chap­ter 26

  Part Three

  Chap­ter 27

  Chap­ter 28

  Chap­ter 29

  PRO­MI­SE OF THE RO­SE

  DAN­GE­RO­US PAS­SI­ON

  Be­ne­ath her soft palms she felt the strength of his arms and the po­wer of his body and the ten­si­on that ran li­ke a hot li­ve wi­re thro­ugh him. The at­mos­p­he­re aro­und them was char­ged with pos­si­bi­lity.

  "Eli­za­beth." His to­ne was un­be­arably in­ti­ma­te. His ro­ugh hands set­tled on her back and slid up to her sho­ul­ders. A wa­ve of sen­sa­ti­on the li­ke of which Re­gi­na had ne­ver be­fo­re ex­pe­ri­en­ced was­hed over her. The­ir glan­ces ca­me to­get­her.

  It was the­re, the dark hun­ger she had se­en be­fo­re. Its po­wer and star­k­ness both frig­h­te­ned and com­pel­led her. With a soft whim­per she grip­ped him mo­re tightly, kno­wing she sho­uld not, kno­wing she was re­ady to sur­ren­der com­p­le­tely.

  He knew it as well. She saw it in the bla­ze of his eyes. Re­gi­na clung to him, wa­iting for him to ta­ke her…

  Ot­her Avon Bo­oks by Bren­da Joy­ce:

  After In­no­cen­ce

  Be­yond Scan­dal

  Cap­ti­ve

  The Fi­res of Pa­ra­di­se

  Fi­res­torm

  The Ga­me

  Inno­cent Fi­re

  Pro­mi­se of the Ro­se

  Scan­da­lo­us Lo­ve

  Vi­olet Fi­re

  ATTEN­TI­ON: OR­GA­NI­ZA­TI­ONS AND COR­PO­RA­TI­ONS

  Most Avon Bo­oks pa­per­backs are ava­ilab­le at spe­ci­al qu­an­tity dis­co­unts for bulk pur­c­ha­ses for sa­les pro­mo­ti­ons, pre­mi­ums, or fund-ra­ising. For in­for­ma­ti­on, ple­ase call or wri­te:

  Spe­ci­al Mar­kets De­par­t­ment, Har­per­Col­lins Pub­lis­hers Inc. 10 East 53rd Stre­et, New York, New York 10022-5299. Te­lep­ho­ne: (212) 207-7528. Fax: (212) 207-7222.

  Bren­da JOY­CE

  &

  AVON BO­OKS

  An Im­p­rint of­Har­per­Col­lin­s­Pub­lis­hers This is a work of fic­ti­on. Na­mes, cha­rac­ters, pla­ces, and in­ci­dents are pro­ducts of the aut­hor's ima­gi­na­ti­on or are used fic­ti­ti­o­usly and are not to be con­s­t­ru­ed as re­al. Any re­sem­b­lan­ce to ac­tu­al events, lo­ca­les, or­ga­ni­za­ti­ons, or per­sons, li­ving or de­ad, is en­ti­rely co­in­ci­den­tal.

  AVON BO­OKS

  An Im­p­rint of Hax­per­Coll in­s­Pub­lis­hers

  East 53rd Stre­et

  New York, New York 10022-5299

  Cop­y­right © 1993 by Se­ni­or Pro­mi­se of the Ro­se ex­cerpt © 1993 by Se­ni­or Co­ver art by Harry Bur­man In­si­de co­ver aut­hor pho­tog­raph by Roy Vol­k­mann Lib­rary of Con­g­ress Ca­ta­log Card Num­ber: 92-93920

  ISBN: 0-380-77139-X

  www.avon­ro­man­ce.com All rights re­ser­ved. No part of this bo­ok may be used or rep­ro­du­ced in any man­ner what­so­ever wit­ho­ut writ­ten per­mis­si­on, ex­cept in the ca­se of bri­ef qu­ota­ti­ons em­bo­di­ed in cri­ti­cal ar­tic­les and re­vi­ews. For in­for­ma­ti­on ad­dress Avon Bo­oks, an im­p­rint of Har­per­Col­lins Pub­lis­hers.

  First Avon Bo­oks prin­ting: Ap­ril 1993 Avon Tra­de­mark Reg. U.S. Pat. Off. and in Ot­her Co­un­t­ri­es, Mar­ca Re­gis­t­ra­da, Hec­ho en U.S.A.

  Har­per­Col­lins® is a tra­de­mark of Har­per­Col­lins Pub­lis­hers Inc.

  Prin­ted in the U.S.A.

  19 18 17 16 15 14 13 12 11

  If you pur­c­ha­sed this bo­ok wit­ho­ut a co­ver, you sho­uld be awa­re that this bo­ok is sto­len pro­perty. It was re­por­ted as "unsold and des­t­ro­yed" to the pub­lis­her, and ne­it­her the aut­hor nor the pub­lis­her has re­ce­ived any pay­ment for this "strip­ped bo­ok."

  This one's for the men in my li­fe: for Al­vin, Ross, and Da­vid.

  The­re is a mo­ral to this story- lo­ve con­qu­ers all.

  And for Elie and Adam, who don't ne­ed any mo­rals yet, and ho­pe­ful­ly ne­ver will.

  Sum­mer of 1899 “And you, my lady? Will you marry a du­ke as yo­ur sis­ter did?"

  Re­gi­na smi­led slightly. "I do­ubt it, Mrs. Schro­ener. Mar­rying a du­ke was qu­ite a fe­at for my sis­ter. Ge­ne­ral­ly, one mar­ri­es pre­ci­sely among one's pe­ers."

  "But yo­ur fat­her is an earl."

  Re­gi­na sta­red out the tra­in's win­dow at the pas­sing sce­nery, a vis­ta of sun­bur­ned sad­dle­back hills thrus­ting aga­inst the sky. "An earl do­es not rank with a du­ke." She re­cal­led the last ti­me she had se­en her pa­rents, be­fo­re they had left Te­xas; she had told them she wo­uld not be re­tur­ning ho­me with them, not just yet. The Earl of Drag­mo­re had not be­en ple­ased, but he had al­lo­wed her to ex­tend her stay in Ame­ri­ca with her re­la­ti­ves. Re­gi­na's he­art twis­ted. She was not go­ing ho­me with the rest of her fa­mily be­ca­use her for­mer be­au Lord Hor­ten­se was the­re, now en­ga­ged to so­me­one el­se af­ter her fat­her had so de­ci­si­vely re­fu­sed him.

  "A be­a­uty li­ke yo­ur­self, why, I don't do­ubt you co­uld ha­ve any man you wan­ted," Mrs. Schro­ener sa­id en­t­hu- si­as­ti­cal­ly, stan­ding with her char­ge at the win­dow.

  "Fat­her will cho­ose so­me­one for me when I re­turn ho­me," Re­gi­na sa­id qu­i­etly. She and her cha­pe­ro­ne we­re in the club car of the So­ut­hern Pa­ci­fic Ra­il­ro­ad's Co­ast Li­ne amid a do­zen ot­her fir­st-class pas­sen­gers. Most we­re gen­t­le­men, eit­her en­ga­ged in con­ver­sa­ti­on or in­vol­ved in the­ir da­ili­es. She pre­fer­red not be­ing over­he­ard.

  Mrs. Schro­ener's eyes we­re wi­de. "He will what?"

  Re­gi­na ma­na­ged a smi­le, not wan­ting the kind old wi­dow to know how much the pros­pect da­un­ted her. She still lo­ved Ran­dolph Hor­ten­se. But it wo­uld not be. She co­uld not go aga­inst her fat­her's wis­hes. She was not the re­ne­ga­de her sis­ter Ni­co­le was. And she was no lon­ger eig­h­te­en. Had she be­en go­ing ho­me now, she wo­uld be en­te­ring her third se­ason. When she did ar­ri­ve back ho­me, her fat­her wo­uld pre­sent her with a list of su­itab­le can­di­da­tes for a hus­band, and she wo­uld ha­ve to cho­ose one of them.

  "Do you me­an to say that in Bri­ta­in they still ar­ran­ge mar­ri­ages? That yo­ur fat­her wo­uld ar­ran­ge a mar­ri­age for you?"

  "It's re­al­ly the best way," Re­gi­na he­ard her­self say.

  "But lo­ok at yo­ur co­usin Lucy! No one wo­uld ha­ve ever ar­ran­ged her mar­ri­age to that Shoz Sa­va­ge-and lo­ok how happy she is! I re­ad all abo­ut the­ir wed­ding just last month. The wed­ding of the cen­tury, they sa­id it was. Now that's true lo­ve!"

  Re­gi­na smi­led. "It was qu­ite an event." She and her fa­mily had co­me to Te­xas to at­tend the wed­ding, gi­ving Re­gi­na the per­
fect ex­cu­se to es­ca­pe En­g­land-and Lord Hor­ten­se and his fi­an­c­йe.

  "So­on you'll ha­ve just such a wed­ding, my de­ar. In­de­ed, with yo­ur be­ing no­bi­lity, I ima­gi­ne it'll be even big­ger and gran­der!"

  Re­gi­na mur­mu­red, "Undo­ub­tedly," her smi­le tur­ning wis­t­ful. And it wasn't a spec­ta­cu­lar wed­ding ce­leb­ra­ti­on she was thin­king of, but lo­ve. The lo­ve she co­uld ha­ve had-but her fat­her had de­ni­ed her. Ran­dolph was not a for­tu­ne-hun­ter, she told her­self firmly, not for the first ti­me. Not that it re­al­ly mat­te­red. He was mar­rying so­me­one el­se. Li­ke her, he wo­uld do his duty by his pa­rents.

  The tra­in se­emed to be slo­wing down.

  "We sho­uld be in Pa­so Rob­les so­on," Mrs. Schro­ener sa­id, pe­ering out of the win­dow. "I think I'll enj­oy tho­se fa­mo­us mud baths myself be­fo­re I turn aro­und and go back to Te­xas."

  "You cer­ta­inly sho­uld," Re­gi­na told her. "The Ho­tel El Pa­so de Rob­les is one of the gre­atest he­alth re­sorts on this co­ast, or so my aunt and un­c­le ha­ve sa­id." She was me­eting the D'Archands the­re. Af­ter a long, re­la­xing we­ekend, they wo­uld he­ad north to San Fran­cis­co whe­re they li­ved. Re­gi­na in­ten­ded to stay with them for the rest of the sum­mer, ha­ving had eno­ugh of Te­xas. In Sep­tem­ber the­re wo­uld be no de­la­ying the ine­vi­tab­le; she wo­uld ha­ve to go ho­me and fa­ce her fu­tu­re.

  Re­gi­na had ope­ned the he­avy gold vel­vet dra­pes so she co­uld re­gard the sce­nery. They we­re pas­sing thro­ugh rol­ling hills. The sum­mer sun had dri­ed the wild grass to a le­mon-yel­low, but the gen­t­le hills we­re spot­ted with thick, lush gre­en oaks, and the ski­es we­re spec­ta­cu­larly blue. From ti­me to ti­me she co­uld glim­p­se the dry bed of the Sa­li­nas Ri­ver as it sna­ked alon­g­si­de them. Re­gi­na fo­und the lan­d­s­ca­pe rug­ged, yet the she­er vas­t­ness of it was bre­at­h­ta­king.

  "So­me­one as be­a­uti­ful and ni­ce as you de­ser­ves a prin­ce," Mrs. Schro­ener dec­la­red, unab­le or un­wil­ling to let go of her ro­man­ti­cism.

  Re­gi­na smi­led fa­intly. It se­emed to her now that the tra­in had de­fi­ni­tely de­ce­le­ra­ted. "Why are we slo­wing?" She re­ac­hed in­to her re­ti­cu­le and re­mo­ved a well-worn ra­il sche­du­le. Twenty mi­nu­tes ago they had stop­ped at San­ta Mar­ga­ri­ta, and her sche­du­le in­di­ca­ted the tra­in sho­uld only be stop­ping now if flag­ged. "The next stop is Tem­p­le­ton, but we can't be the­re yet. And af­ter that we will be at Pa­so Rob­les."

  "The­re's pro­bably a far­mer flag­ging us down," Mrs. Schro­ener sa­id. "Not­hing for you to worry abo­ut."

  Re­gi­na co­uld only con­c­lu­de that her cha­pe­ro­ne was right. Re­luc­tantly, she tur­ned to ta­ke a se­at. But be­fo­re she co­uld do so, a gun­s­hot rang out.

  Her he­art se­emed to drop to her fe­et and the air to rush from her lungs. The so­und of the gun­s­hot ec­ho­ed. It had be­en fi­red in one of the ot­her cars, per­haps in the adj­acent car, from which co­uld now be he­ard scre­ams and cri­es of fright.

  Mrs. Schro­ener grip­ped her hand. Anot­her shot rang out. The sho­oting was de­fi­ni­tely in the car be­hind them. Thro­ugh the cho­rus of ge­ne­ral hyste­ria, a baby's crying co­uld be he­ard.

  Oh, de­ar God! Re­gi­na tho­ught fran­ti­cal­ly. It's a rob beryl Cha­os erup­ted in the club car. The men we­re on then fe­et, mil­ling abo­ut, the wo­men pa­le and sha­king with fright and shock. From the ot­her ra­il­car ca­me anot­her gun­s­hot and a wo­man's long, shrill scre­am of an­gu­ish Re­gi­na had ne­ver he­ard the so­und be­fo­re, but knew it for what it was-ter­ror and gri­ef.

  It was at that mo­ment that a man with a mask 01 his fa­ce, hol­ding a hu­ge re­vol­ver, burst in­to the club car from the car be­hind them, sho­uting, "No one mo­ve! Ever­yo­ne fre­eze! Mo­ve and you're gon­na get yo­ur­sel kil­led!"

  Re­gi­na and Mrs. Schro­ener we­re stan­ding at the ot­her end of the car, with all of the pas­sen­gers bet­we­en then and the ban­dit. Re­gi­na fro­ze. She co­uld not be­li­eve this was hap­pe­ning!

  Ever­yo­ne obe­yed the mas­ked gun­man, be­co­ming mo­ti­on­less. The wo­men we­re sob­bing, and one of the gen­t­le­men was al­so in te­ars. Ro­ughly, the ban­dit re­ac­hed out to the per­son clo­sest to him, a yo­ung wo­man te­aring her ear-bobs from her ears. She scre­amed, and the man cuf­fed her. Re­gi­na wat­c­hed her hit the wall and col­lap­se, blo­od sta­ining her be­a­uti­ful pink-and-whi­te stri­ped jac­ket.

  The ban­dit le­aned over her, rip­ping her nec­k­la­ce from her, too. The wo­man lay we­eping.

  "May­be we'll ta­ke you with us," the ban­dit sne­ered. When she scre­amed, he la­ug­hed, then ro­se to his for­mi­dab­le he­ight. He tur­ned to the gen­t­le­man clo­sest to him and yan­ked a wal­let out of his poc­ket, then went for his poc­ket watch.

  Re­gi­na was sha­king. She was no lon­ger shoc­ked, no lon­ger dis­be­li­eving. They we­re be­ing rob­bed, and in a vi­olent, ter­rif­ying way. The out­law's thre­at to the yo­ung lady rang in her ears. She co­uld ba­rely think. She was numb, ter­ri­fi­ed. But she was awa­re that the do­or was very clo­se be­hind her, le­ading to the plat­form bet­we­en this car and the one in front of them. We­re the­re out­laws in that car, too? No so­unds had co­me from it. Yet even if the­re we­ren't, the out­laws-and she had not a do­ubt that the­re we­re se­ve­ral-wo­uld so­on in­va­de it, too. Re­gi­na's he­art was po­un­ding.

  The ban­dit to­ok a mo­ment to lo­ok aro­und the club car. His glan­ce set­tled on Re­gi­na. For an in­s­tant the­ir ga­zes loc­ked. As he tur­ned to rob his third vic­tim, a yo­ung man, Re­gi­na felt pa­nic over­w­helm her. She sho­ok. Swe­at al­most blin­ded her as she saw the rob­ber ra­ise his gun and hit the pro­tes­ting gen­t­le­man with it. Her pul­se ro­ared in her ears. She swal­lo­wed a whim­per, wat­c­hing the ban­dit poc­ket a bil­lfold and mo­ve to the next pas­sen­ger. She did not wa­it to see what wo­uld hap­pen next.

  She mo­ved. She sho­ved past Mrs. Schro­ener, who let out a star­t­led cry. She ran the three steps to the do­or. She did not ha­ve to lo­ok bac­k­ward to know that he had se­en her.

  "Stop!" he sho­uted.

  Re­gi­na ig­no­red him. Ter­ror be­at thickly in her he­art. She grip­ped the iron bar and wren­c­hed open the he­avy do­or, stum­b­ling on­to the plat­form. A sob to­re from her mo­uth as she saw how fast the tra­in was still mo­ving. For she wo­uld ha­ve to jump from the tra­in.

  A shot rang out aga­in, this ti­me be­hind her, clo­se be­hind her. He was sho­oting at her.

  She scre­amed, cat­c­hing her­self on the op­po­si­te ra­il, tor one last se­cond wat­c­hing the hard gro­und spe­eding by so far be­low her. And then, wit­ho­ut anot­her tho­ught, Re­gi­na hur­led her­self from the tra­in.

  Part 1

  Secrets

  Chapter 1

  “Can you he­ar me?"

  It was hot. The he­at was stif­ling, suf­fo­ca­ting. And she was thirsty, her mo­uth as dry as dust. Her ton­gue felt swol­len and numb. But she he­ard the words. They so­un­ded far away.

  "Are you hurt?"

  He was spe­aking aga­in. His to­ne was ur­gent, con­cer­ned. Yet she did not want to fight to swim up thro­ugh the dark depths of sle­ep, and she won­de­red if she we­re dre­aming.

  "Can you he­ar me?"

  His words we­re lo­uder, in­sis­tent. In­ter­fe­ring. She wan­ted it to be a dre­am and she wan­ted him to go away so she co­uld drift back in­to the to­tal dar­k­ness aga­in.

  But it wasn't a dre­am. The in­s­tant he to­uc­hed her she knew that. He was sha­king her gently by the sho­ul­der. She wo­uld ha­ve cri­ed out in pro­test, told him to go away, but she co­uld not q
u­ite ut­ter the words. And then he to­uc­hed her he­ad, his fin­gers sli­ding over her scalp. Pa­in burst in Re­gi­na's skull. The dar­k­ness was sli­ced ab­ruptly open.

  Be­fo­re she co­uld pro­test he had swiftly un­c­las­ped her jac­ket and par­ted it. The co­oler air was ba­rely a re­li­ef. He was un­but­to­ning the high-nec­ked col­lar of her shir­t­wa­ist, his blunt-tip­ped fin­gers gra­zing the na­pe of her neck. And as if he hadn't tres­pas­sed far eno­ugh, his hands mo­ved over her sho­ul­ders and arms se­ar­c­hingly, then gra­zed her bre­asts, ca­using her nip­ples to tig­h­ten in­s­tan­ta­ne­o­usly. He did not ap­pe­ar to no­ti­ce, in­tent as he was on pro­bing every sin­g­le bo­ne of her rib ca­ge.

  Re­gi­na was fro­zen, sus­pen­ded in fe­ar. She was wi­de awa­ke now, awa­re of the po­un­ding of her he­ad, the ter­rib­le he­at, her un­yi­el­ding thirst, and that she was ac­tu­al­ly lying upon the gro­und. And she was acu­tely awa­re of him. Now he was to­uc­hing her legs. He was sli­ding his palms up from her an­k­les to her thighs, only a thin la­yer of silk se­pa­ra­ting his flesh from hers. The fact that the sen­sa­ti­on was so­me­how dis­tur­bingly ple­asant ma­na­ged to pi­er­ce her fe­ar-be­num­bed bra­in.

  She lay ri­gid, not bre­at­hing.

  "You can qu­it pla­ying pos­sum. I know you're awa­ke."

  Her bre­ath es­ca­ped. Very slowly she ope­ned her eyes.

  He flip­ped her skirts down over her legs and ro­se to stand abo­ve her. The sun was be­hind him and she co­uld ba­rely see him. He was a dark sha­dow, lo­oming over her. Con­fu­si­on ro­se hard. Whe­re was she? A qu­ick glan­ce aro­und sho­wed her that they we­re alo­ne ex­cept for one sad­dled hor­se, alo­ne in the mid­dle of a val­ley sur­ro­un­ded by smo­oth straw-co­lo­red hills and a re­len­t­less blue sky. She le­ve­red her­self up in­to a sit­ting po­si­ti­on and for one mo­ment, she was dizzy.

  Instantly he squ­at­ted be­si­de her and put his arm aro­und her, pre­ven­ting her from fal­ling. His body was, hot, hot­ter than the air. When her he­ad stop­ped spin­ning, the­ir glan­ces met and held.