A Candle in the Dark (47 page)

Ana closed her eyes, seeing Cain’s easy, seductive smile, the teasing light in his eyes. She remembered him standing there in the sunlight with egg dripping in yellow ribbons down his shirt, remembered his tousled sleepiness when he woke in the morning and the way he grabbed her in his delirium—as if she were his life. More than all that, she remembered last night, and the warm, giving man who had made her forget her past.

Ana glanced at the burlap bag beside her. Inside were the steamer tickets she’d taken from Cain’s coat. Both of them, so he wouldn’t follow her, so he wouldn’t show up in Panama City and sweep her away, take her back. They were her guarantee. As long as she had them, she was safe from him, safe from his all-seeing eyes and honesty. Safe from the words
I love you
, and what they meant.
I love you, Ana. Nothing will ever change that, I love you. I love you. I love you
.

She was riding away from all that now. Riding away because she didn’t want to be vulnerable. Because she was afraid of madness. But she wasn’t her mother; he was nothing like her faithless father.

And she was already vulnerable.

She didn’t know when it had happened, or how, but Ana suddenly knew that her defenses had been down for weeks. Despite herself, she had already let Cain in, let him fill the hollow spot inside her. She had been fooling herself, pretending she was still the Ana she had been, the cold, collected Duchess who never let anyone close enough to hurt.

She had not been that person for a very long time. Jiméne had been right, Cain had been right. She was the only one who hadn’t seen it. No, she was no longer the Duchess, no longer her mother’s Anastasia. She was only Ana.

It was all because of Cain. All because of his belief in her, his never-ending belief that she was better than she thought she was, that there was something inside of her that was fine and good and honorable. Because he believed it, she had no choice but to believe it too. He had done more than simply understand her spirit—he had given it back to her.

And she was riding away. The only thing in her life that had ever been good, or right, and she was riding away from it because she was a coward, because she needed him, and she was afraid of that need and what it meant. It was safe where she was going. A world she understood. A world where nothing touched and nothing hurt.

A world where there was no laughter. No love. Only emptiness. A world where she could destroy herself. Because she
would
destroy herself, she knew suddenly. If she went back to being the old Ana, that darkness would swallow her up. There would be nothing. This time, she knew too much about love and belonging and hope to survive it.

She was afraid to become the Duchess again.

God, so afraid.

Ana drew her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, trying desperately to stop her trembling. Her fingers were like ice. She felt the tears just behind her eyes and she fought them, forcing them back, blinking in an effort not to cry. She wished he were there with her, wanted him wrapped around her, his quiet breathing in her ear, the feel of his heat. Wanted to hear his soft words telling her not to be afraid, that everything would be all right.

Wanted to tell him she loved him.

Ana buried her face in her arms. For the first time since her mother died, she let the tears come.

“But it hurts, Doctor!” Enzo whined and shifted his small body away from Cain’s probing hands.

“Be still, Enzo.” With one hand, Cain anchored the boy firmly to the ground. Anxiously he pushed aside a lock of Enzo’s dark hair, searching for the bump, looking for blood. There was none, which was a relief, considering how the boy had screamed bloody murder when he’d fallen off the cow moments before. “You’re fine, little one,” he said in Spanish, letting the hair fall back into place and rocking back on his heels. “It will stop hurting in a bit, just as soon as you—”

He broke off, seeing Enzo’s eyes stare past him, into the field. Cain swiveled around, expecting to see Jiméne, or Juan.

He did not expect to see Ana, though he had been waiting for her.

She stood there, looking at him uncertainly, saying nothing. The red dress was torn and muddied, and her hair had loosened from her braid. It spread over her shoulders, tumbled down her back in a heavy wave of curls, glimmering richly in the sunlight. Her face was streaked with dirt, there was a bright pink scratch running along one cheek. She looked tired and worn, and so beautiful it made him weak.

He wanted to touch her, to make sure she wasn’t an illusion, but he didn’t. She was back, but he wasn’t sure what that meant, and he couldn’t bear it if she shrugged away from him. So he didn’t touch her.

She looked at him, and then looked away, and he saw the shine of tears in her eyes. Saw the way she lifted her hand as if to stop him from saying something. Saw her swallow convulsively before she turned her eyes to his.

“I love you,” she whispered. The tears welled, one slipped down her cheek, making a clean streak on her skin. “I love you.”

Slowly he rose. It took every ounce of strength he had to turn to the boy at his feet. “Run on home, Enzo,” he said gently. “Find your papa.”

In moments, he heard the patter of the boy’s feet across the field, and they were alone. Ana had not moved, had barely taken a breath. He saw the anxiety in her eyes, the way she watched him as if she were afraid he would tell her to go—God, as if he ever could.

“Ana—” he breathed.

She closed her eyes briefly, clenched her fists at her sides. “I thought I could leave. I thought if I went far enough away, you wouldn’t find me. But I—I didn’t know… I didn’t know you were already inside me.” Her voice trailed off, a mere whisper in the breeze. She laughed slightly, as if embarrassed by the admission, and wiped the tears from her face with the back of her hand. Then she swallowed, painfully, and the tears welled all over again. “I was out there, all alone, and I thought—I thought: ‘This is all there is.’ This is what I have. Nothing. Nothing but so much—so much darkness.”

She looked up at him miserably. “I thought I could go back to being the Duchess again. But I can’t.” She looked down at her feet, and her hair came forward to hide her face, her hands twisted in her skirt. “Even if you don’t want me, I can’t go back. I’m not—I’m not that person anymore. I don’t know who I am. I don’t know anything… Except that I love you, and I think—I know—I need you.”

Cain stepped forward. He reached out, and took her hand, wrapping his fingers around it so it stilled on her skirt. Her fingers were cold.

She clenched his hand as if it were a lifeline. “I’m so afraid, Cain,” she whispered. “I need you so much, and I’m so afraid.”

“Ah,
querida
.” He ran his hand through her hair, twining its richness through his fingers, raising her chin. “Don’t be afraid. Don’t be afraid. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere, and I need you just as much. I love you just as much. God, how much I love you.” He kissed the damp trail of tears on her cheeks, tasting the saltiness on his lips, his tongue, kissed her eyelids and the soft, downy hair at her temple. “Perhaps,
mi corazon
, we can save each other.”

Her lips pressed together in a trembling, fragile smile. “I think it will be a hard job.”

He kissed her again. “Not so hard,” he said against her mouth.

“Yes,” she said. “Not hard at all.”

“Marry me,” he told her. “Stay here and marry me so I can see you every morning when I get up, and hear your voice at night when I go to bed. So I can choke on your damned bread pudding and watch you brush out that lovely, glorious hair. But mostly—ah,
querida
, mostly, marry me so I can hear you singing lullabies to our daughter.”

She grinned at him then, looked up at him with bright, shining eyes. “You know I can’t sing.”

He laughed out loud, holding her close against him, feeling as if the sun and moon and all the stars were shining down on him at the same time. “Then I’ll teach you. Ah, my sweet, sweet Ana. I’ll teach you.”