Secrets Read online

  She ra­ised her hand. He im­me­di­ately un­der­s­to­od what she in­ten­ded and drop­ped the trunk in or­der to catch her wrist and res­t­ra­in her.

  "Blast you!" Re­gi­na cri­ed fu­ri­o­usly. His grip hurt her and bro­ught her to her sen­ses. La­di­es, even ones with no mo­ney, did not stri­ke gen­t­le­men, no mat­ter what the pro­vo­ca­ti­on. But it was too la­te. For he had ca­ught her ot­her wrist, hus­t­ling her up aga­inst the wall.

  Instantly he pres­sed his ste­el-hard body on hers in or­der to im­mo­bi­li­ze her. He was suc­ces­sful. She was unab­le to mo­ve her hands or her body and her back se­emed to sink in­to the ro­ugh sto­ne wall.

  "What is it?" he de­man­ded.

  She slum­ped be­ne­ath him, physi­cal­ly dra­ined from the­ir bri­ef yet stre­nu­o­us tus­sle. But she had the strength to lo­ok in­to his eyes, and hers we­re te­ar­ful and ac­cu­sing. "I trus­ted you!"

  "A mis­ta­ke," he sa­id grimly. "Are you calm? I didn't re­ali­ze a lady li­ke you co­uld ha­ve such sharp claws, and I don't re­lish we­aring yo­ur mark."

  She re­ali­zed that she co­uldn't spe­ak fur­t­her. Her an­ger and hurt had not dim­med, but awa­re­ness of anot­her sort was ra­pidly daw­ning on her. She tho­ught that she co­uld fe­el every in­te­res­ting ma­le inch of his body. They we­re clo­sely pres­sed aga­inst each ot­her. So­me­how, his knee had slip­ped bet­we­en hers, and his thigh had ag­gres­si­vely in­ser­ted it­self aga­inst her lo­ins. It was shoc­king. Her body's res­pon­se was even mo­re shoc­king.

  Re­gi­na re­ali­zed that he was sta­ring at her, but not with any in­te­rest in what she might ha­ve to say. He was stud­ying her mo­uth, and the li­ne of her neck, then the full cur­ve of the top of her bo­som, crus­hed be­ne­ath his chest. His in­tent pe­ru­sal qu­ic­ke­ned her al­re­ady ke­en sen­ses. Res­t­ra­ining the an­ti­ci­pa­ti­on flo­oding her body was im­pos­sib­le.

  Re­gi­na fo­und her­self lo­oking at him with equ­al in­ten­sity. It had ne­ver oc­cur­red to her be­fo­re that the thick frin­ge of a man's eye­las­hes co­uld be ero­tic, or that the slim li­ne of his no­se co­uld sum­mon up an ur­ge to fe­el his fa­ce nuz­zling hers. His lips we­re par­ted. His fa­ce was very clo­se to hers. Clo­se eno­ugh that she co­uld see how smo­oth and un­b­le­mis­hed his dark skin was, ex­cept for the tiny crow's-fe­et aro­und his eyes that tes­ti­fi­ed to his many ye­ars of squ­in­ting in­to the sun. For they most cer­ta­inly we­re not la­ugh li­nes.

  His ga­ze slowly lif­ted. His body pul­sed aga­inst hers. Re­gi­na sta­red.

  "May­be you sho­uld stay mad," he sa­id in a low, ro­ugh vo­ice.

  He was right. She was angry, just as she was hurt, and whi­le his bet­ra­yal co­uld be ig­no­red for a mo­ment, it co­uld not be for­got­ten. "Ple­ase re­mo­ve yo­ur per­son from mi­ne," she sa­id, trem­b­ling.

  A smi­le, ice-cold, moc­king the he­at of his body, cur­ved his mo­uth. It was tho­ro­ughly un­li­kab­le. "Ha­ve I fi­nal­ly be­en de­mo­ted?" He step­ped away from her with ap­pa­rent in­dif­fe­ren­ce.

  She had no idea what he was re­fer­ring to. "I think you sho­uld get out of my ro­om."

  "I tho­ught I was yo­ur he­ro." He didn't mo­ve.

  "He­ro­es don't lie."

  "So I ha­ve be­en de­mo­ted. What did I lie abo­ut?" His vo­ice was flat, as if de­vo­id of even the ti­ni­est spark of in­te­rest. "Is that why you're crying?"

  "I'm not crying. My eyes are-wet."

  "An al­lergy."

  "Yes."

  He lif­ted a brow. "What has bro­ught on this… al­ler­gic re­ac­ti­on?"

  "Don't you da­re mock me." Her an­ger blos­so­med aga­in.

  "I wasn't awa­re that I was moc­king you. May­be you're moc­king me." His glan­ce slid over her, not qu­ite in­dif­fe­rently.

  Her eyes wi­de­ned when she gu­es­sed his me­aning. "I as­su­re you, I am not le­ading you on!"

  "No? You led Ed­ward on. May­be you led James on. Did you?"

  She stif­fe­ned, in­c­re­du­lo­us. "I was not le­ading yo­ur brot­her on!"

  "You we­re grin­ning at him li­ke an idi­ot. Is that kind of talk what a wo­man re­al­ly wants to he­ar?" He strol­led aro­und the pe­rip­hery of her ro­om, not lo­oking at her.

  "It was a ga­me. A ga­me of words. That's all."

  He le­aned his back aga­inst the op­po­si­te wall, his arms cros­sed. "But you se­em to li­ke to play it. Ed­ward de­fi­ni­tely li­kes to play it."

  "It's not a mat­ter of li­king it or not." So­me­how, he had ma­ne­uve­red her in­to a very de­fen­si­ve po­si­ti­on, and her back was aga­inst the wall in mo­re ways than one.

  "No?"

  "No! If s a mat­ter of be­ing po­li­te. Of be­ing a lady. Ed­ward was just be­ing a gen­t­le­man."

  "And if I tell you how pretty you are, do­es that ma­ke me a gen­t­le­man, too?"

  She went still. Her he­art was po­un­ding er­ra­ti­cal­ly for an un­fat­ho­mab­le re­ason. His ga­ze held hers. She sen­sed the se­ri­o­us na­tu­re of his qu­es­ti­on. "No. No, it do­es not."

  "I didn't think so."

  How co­uld he def­la­te her an­ger so easily, and turn the to­pic on­to anot­her co­ur­se? "You try very hard not to be a gen­t­le­man, don't you?"

  He grin­ned, but it was for­ced. "Do I?"

  "I can see thro­ugh you, Sla­de."

  His grin di­ed. He pus­hed him­self off the wall. "I don't re­al­ly ca­re what you think you see. And if you want to flirt with Ed­ward and call it po­li­te, go right ahe­ad, I su­re as hell won't stop you. But may­be I sho­uld warn you. Ed­ward may be a gen­t­le­man in yo­ur bo­ok, but he's al­so a man."

  "What do­es that me­an?"

  "It me­ans he wo­uldn't mind ste­aling a kiss or two. In fact, if you en­co­ura­ge him, I'm su­re he will."

  Re­gi­na drew her­self up. "I am not en­co­ura­ging him." But her fa­ce grew red when she re­cal­led, very cle­arly, how she had en­co­ura­ged Sla­de.

  Sla­de lo­oked at her. "Do what you want."

  She trem­b­led. He tho­ught the worst of her. He tho­ught her im­mo­ral. But she was, wasn't she? Not with Ed­ward, who, as han­d­so­me as he was, did not eli­cit the slig­h­test in­te­rest from her. But with Sla­de. She had as­ked for his kiss in the buggy, and just a mo­ment ago she had wan­ted anot­her.

  They sta­red at each ot­her. The si­len­ce was thick with ten­si­on. Re­gi­na was qu­ite cer­ta­in that he knew exactly what she was thin­king. "I think I had bet­ter re­turn to town," she sa­id une­venly.

  He re­gar­ded her be­fo­re wal­king past her to the bal­cony. He­avy clo­uds had sud­denly ap­pe­ared to cast long, al­most pur­p­le sha­dows on the oce­an. The bre­eze was be­co­ming mo­re no­ti­ce­ab­le, too.

  "No," he sa­id, his back to her. "With yo­ur pretty smi­les and pretty spe­ech, as -po­li­te as you are, you'd be prey for every man drif­ting by. Rick is right. You had bet­ter stay he­re un­til you re­ga­in yo­ur me­mory."

  She was un­su­re. She had co­me to Mi­ra­mar be­ca­use she had no pla­ce to go, and be­ca­use she had trus­ted Sla­de to pro­tect her in the­se bi­zar­re cir­cum­s­tan­ces. But she no lon­ger trus­ted him. He had li­ed to her. Yet she still wan­ted to trust him, as in­c­re­dib­le as that might be. She wan­ted that very much. But how co­uld she? She co­uld not trust a man who ho­ped to use her. And it hurt to be Sla­de's hap­less vic­tim.

  And now the­re was the un­de­ni­ab­le fact of her in­te­rest in him as a man. She did not want to re­mem­ber the fe­el of his kiss or his body. She did not want to be awa­re of how han­d­so­me he was, how ma­le and vi­ri­le he was. She did not want to be in­te­res­ted in him.

  In that mo­ment Re­gi­na was af­ra­id. Not of her cir­c
um­s­tan­ces, of her loss of me­mory, of the truth of her iden­tity and what had hap­pe­ned, but af­ra­id of the enig­ma­tic man stan­ding on the ot­her si­de of the ro­om with his back to her. And may­be, just may­be, she was af­ra­id of her­self. "Why didn't you tell me?"

  He didn't mo­ve, wat­c­hing the clo­uds sa­iling to­ward them. "Tell you what?"

  "That Rick in­tends for us to marry."

  He tur­ned. "Vic­to­ria be­en flap­ping her gums a bit?"

  Re­gi­na wa­ited, well awa­re that her eyes we­re bright aga­in with un­s­hed te­ars that sig­na­led a fresh wa­ve of hurt. "Why didn't you tell me?"

  "I can see you're not too happy abo­ut the pros­pect."

  "I trus­ted you."

  "I didn't tell you be­ca­use I ha­ven't ma­de up my mind yet," Sla­de sa­id brus­qu­ely. "Truth is, I ha­ven't ag­re­ed to marry you."

  "What?"

  "I told Rick I'd think abo­ut it."

  "You told Rick you wo­uld think abo­ut it."

  "That's right."

  She co­uld ba­rely be­li­eve her ears. She had as­su­med that Sla­de was plan­ning to marry her for her mo­ney. But he wasn't. He was con­si­de­ring it. That he hadn't ag­re­ed and for­ced her to ma­ke a cho­ice sho­uld re­li­eve her, but it did not. The si­tu­ati­on was no less con­s­pi­ra­to­ri­al just be­ca­use he had yet to put his fi­nal stamp of ap­pro­val upon it. "I trus­ted you."

  "That's the se­cond ti­me you've sa­id that."

  She clo­sed her eyes, re­sol­ved not to cry, at le­ast not un­til he had left her ro­om. She in­ha­led and it ga­ve her strength. "You re­ali­ze that it wo­uld be ab­surd?"

  "How ab­surd?"

  "Com­p­le­tely ab­surd."

  "How co­me I get the fe­eling that yo­ur obj­ec­ti­on has ever­y­t­hing to do with me-but not one damn thing to do with James?"

  She step­ped back ref­le­xi­vely, shoc­ked at his ra­ge. In truth, she had for­got­ten all abo­ut her de­ad fi­ancй, and that Sla­de was his brot­her.

  "I tho­ught so."

  "I can't even re­mem­ber James," she pro­tes­ted.

  "But I can," he sa­id.

  His pa­in was as pri­mi­ti­ve and dark as his ot­her emo­ti­ons had be­en ear­li­er in the buggy. She knew she sho­uld not be wit­nes­sing it, just as she sho­uld not ha­ve glim­p­sed even bri­efly so de­eply in­to his so­ul. "It's not my fa­ult. James's de­ath is not my fa­ult. That I can't re­mem­ber him is not my fa­ult. Be­li­eve me, I wish I co­uld re­mem­ber him-and I wish he we­re not de­ad."

  He gla­red at her, inex­p­li­cably fu­ri­o­us. "You know what, Eli­za­beth? Damn you." He whe­eled past her and slam­med out of the ro­om.

  Re­gi­na cri­ed out. His cur­se im­mo­bi­li­zed her, then she ran to the do­ub­le do­ors and ca­ught them be­fo­re they ban­ged aga­in. She did not pull them shut. She sta­red af­ter Sla­de, te­ars fi­nal­ly slip­ping free to sta­in her che­eks, te­ars very si­mi­lar to the ones she was su­re she had just glim­p­sed in his eyes. But they we­re crying for very dif­fe­rent re­asons-or we­re they?

  Re­gi­na had no in­ten­ti­on of re­ma­ining at Mi­ra­mar anot­her mo­ment. Co­ming he­re had be­en a mis­ta­ke. For Mi­ra­mar was no lon­ger an in­vi­ting san­c­tu­ary. She co­uld not get past the fact that Sla­de had bet­ra­yed her trust. The wo­und was un­be­arab­le. It sho­uldn't mat­ter as much as it did; in re­ality he was only a stran­ger, but lo­gic did not ru­le her he­art. He most cer­ta­inly was no lon­ger her sa­vi­or. And that bro­ught forth a new ur­ge to we­ep.

  She ne­eded him. Didn't he re­ali­ze that? How co­uld he do this to her when she ne­eded him so!

  Yet even as she pre­pa­red to le­ave, she co­uld not sha­ke him from her mind, she co­uld not stop thin­king abo­ut him. She re­mem­be­red ever­y­t­hing she sho­uldn't re­mem­ber, from his con­cern when he had res­cu­ed her, to his con­f­lict with his fat­her, to his kiss. And she fo­und her­self thin­king "if only." If only she did not ha­ve am­ne­sia, if only she we­re not James's fi­an­c­йe. But the re­ality co­uld not be chan­ged by wis­h­ful thin­king.

  She wo­uld le­ave all of her things. Be­ca­use it had be­en so bla­zingly hot and sunny down-val­ley she ex­c­han­ged her perky lit­tle hat for a wi­de-brim­med straw bon­net, even tho­ugh the sky had be­co­me over­cast. She al­so don­ned low-he­eled wal­king sho­es. They lo­oked brand-new, but she was af­ra­id to tarry and se­arch for anot­her, bro­ken-in pa­ir. Be­ca­use she was in a rush, the­re was no ti­me to plan. She de­ci­ded that in Tem­p­le­ton she wo­uld wi­re her step­mot­her for as­sis­tan­ce. Wit­hin mi­nu­tes she was re­ady to le­ave. Her in­s­tincts ur­ged her to flee be­fo­re she might chan­ge her mind. She knew bet­ter than to ask Sla­de or any mem­ber of the ho­use­hold to ta­ke her to town. They wo­uld re­fu­se, or at­tempt to talk her out of le­aving. Be­ca­use they wan­ted her to marry Sla­de; be­ca­use they wan­ted her mo­ney.

  The ho­use was bu­ilt on a hill. She went to the ter­ra­ce over­lo­oking the slo­ping gro­unds out­si­de, and be­yond that, the frot­hing oce­an. For one se­cond she won­de­red if ra­in was on its way-the sky was be­co­ming po­si­ti­vely dre­ary; and the oce­an had be­co­me qu­ite ro­ugh. She shrug­ged off the mo­ment of he­si­ta­ti­on. She had to pro­tect her­self and her own in­te­rests, for the­re was no one el­se to do it for her. Not an­y­mo­re.

  Re­gi­na wal­ked out on­to the ter­ra­ce and de­ba­ted clim­bing over the ra­iling and drop­ping the ten or twenty fe­et to the gro­und. As she sto­od the­re in in­de­ci­si­on, a sha­dowy ima­ge for­med in her mind, and, just for an in­s­tant, Re­gi­na tho­ught she co­uld see so­me­one she knew, so­me­one de­ar to her, la­ug­hing and tel­ling her that she co­uld do it. For one split se­cond it was so re­al that she co­uld see the per­son, and then the in­s­tant was go­ne.

  Re­gi­na fro­ze, grip­ping the ra­iling. The me­mory was go­ne-and it had be­en a me­mory. She had re­mem­be­red so­me­body, so­me­one im­por­tant to her. She was cer­ta­in of it. But now, that per­son was shro­uded in the dar­k­ness of her am­ne­sia.

  Who was it that she knew who co­uld le­ap off ter­ra­ces so bra­vely? She ye­ar­ned for the an­s­wer, and she was ter­ribly di­sap­po­in­ted that the iden­tity of the per­son elu­ded her when she had gras­ped it se­conds ago. Frus­t­ra­ti­on bro­ught stin­ging te­ars to her eyes.

  Ne­ver­t­he­less, Re­gi­na tur­ned to the task at hand. She did not ha­ve to ha­ve her me­mory in or­der to know that she was not the type to le­ap off ter­ra­ces, and she mo­ved away from the ra­iling. Not stop­ping to think, be­ca­use it wo­uld only ma­ke her he­si­ta­te, she slip­ped out in­to the co­ur­t­yard. She ran ac­ross it and theft thro­ugh the adj­acent front co­ur­t­yard as well. When she re­ac­hed the front ga­te she pa­used aga­inst the wall be­ne­ath two le­mon tre­es, pan­ting and trying to catch her bre­ath. The wind was pic­king up. It lif­ted her skirts and whip­ped them aga­inst her legs. She stra­ined to he­ar, wa­iting for sho­uts of dis­co­very, but the­re we­re no­ne.

  Her he­art be­at wildly now. Run­ning away ma­de her fe­el li­ke she was com­mit­ting a cri­mi­nal act. She pe­ered thro­ugh the iron ga­tes. Per­haps be­ca­use of the we­at­her, or per­haps be­ca­use of the ti­me of day-it was mid-af­ter­no­on, si­es­ta ti­me-the­re was no. one abo­ut. When they had ar­ri­ved at the ho­use se­ve­ral ho­urs ago the­re had be­en a gre­at de­al of ac­ti­vity aro­und the stab­les and cor­rals. The ti­ming co­uld not ha­ve be­en bet­ter. Re­gi­na dar­ted out of the co­ur­t­yard.

  She hadn't plan­ned on ta­king a hor­se, but now she knew she wo­uld ha­ve to do so if she wan­ted to re­ach Tem­p­le­ton by nig­h­t­fall. Tra­ve­ling on fo­ot was out of the qu­es­ti­on. The­re had be­en no tra
f­fic on the ro­ad when she had tra­ve­led it with Sla­de, but even if the­re had be­en, she wo­uld not even con­si­der trying to get a ri­de to town with a stran­ger. The very idea was unac­cep­tab­le.

  She wasn't thril­led with the idea of ta­king a hor­se out by her­self, eit­her. That af­ter­no­on she had le­ar­ned that she was a po­or hor­se­wo­man. But she wo­uld ma­na­ge; she had no cho­ice.

  She saw no one as she cros­sed the gro­unds and ap­pro­ac­hed the stab­les. Ama­zingly, a glan­ce in­to the barn sho­wed Re­gi­na that not even a gro­om was wit­hin. It co­uld not be any bet­ter. She ran in­si­de. It was dark wit­hin but she didn't da­re turn any lights on. She fo­und the tack ro­om and drag­ged a sad­dle and brid­le from it. She was qu­ite cer­ta­in that she had ne­ver sad­dled a mo­unt be­fo­re.

  Re­gi­na cho­se the most pla­cid-lo­oking ani­mal in the stab­le. Al­t­ho­ugh the hor­se se­emed ob­li­vi­o­us of her, it to­ok Re­gi­na a very long ti­me to ma­na­ge to lift the sad­dle and se­cu­re it in­to pla­ce, and even lon­ger to brid­le him. By now the bay gel­ding was lo­oking at her, al­t­ho­ugh he sto­od mo­ti­on­less. Re­gi­na pra­ised him in high, ner­vo­us to­nes. Mo­ments la­ter she led the do­ci­le ani­mal from the stall.

  The worst was over. Re­li­ef fil­led her. She drag­ged open the barn do­or and as­su­red her­self that no one was abo­ut. On the slo­pe slightly abo­ve her, the spraw­ling ado­be ho­use ap­pe­ared de­ser­ted and li­fe­less.

  Trying to re­ma­in calm, Re­gi­na led her mo­unt to a ba­le of hay, step­ped up on it by swe­eping her skirts up and out of the way, and, ig­no­ring the aw­k­war­d­ness and ut­ter lack of de­co­rum of ri­ding as­t­ri­de, she slid on­to the sad­dle. She grab­bed the pom­mel as the bay jig­gled.