Duncan's Rose (16 page)

The doctor looked over his shoulder at Mac. “She can leave, right?”

“Of course, any time she wants,” Mac said.

Miranda sensed that Mac’s harsh voice was filled with intense pain. The doctor saw to her wounds and wrapped her wrists. “You should be fine now. I have to go, but I’ll be in this mansion if you need me.”

“You promise?”

“Yes.” He gazed at Mac.

“You can leave the mansion if you like, you’re in no danger now,” Mac said, looking at Miranda.

“Your uncle is dying,” the doctor said to Mac. “I’d better be with him.”

“Damn, he wasn’t bluffing, then.”

“No.”

“Hmm.” Mac scratched his chin and touched his mask, looking at Miranda. “I need to talk to you, Miranda. Alone.”

The doctor nodded to her. “You’ll be fine.” He patted her head and left the room with Mathew.

Mac stood there not looking at her, his jaw tight, as the doctor closed the bedroom door on his way out.

Confused, Miranda bit her lower lip. She knew that, by now, Mac had figured out how she felt about him. “I don’t…”

“How could you believe for a second that I could hurt you, Miranda?”

“I don’t know what to think anymore, Mac,” she said. “I just know I need to leave.” Her teeth chattered. Miranda’s brain blurred with mixed, dark thoughts against Mac. She was exhausted, and she couldn’t think anymore, couldn’t comprehend right from wrong.

Oh God, please, I just want this to be over with. Make it disappear, make it right.

“Fine,” he said. “I’ll prepare the car for you first thing in the morning.” He marched to the door.

“Wait, Mac!”

He didn’t look back but paused for a second before he slammed the door behind him, leaving her to mull in her regret and confusion.

Miranda wept. If only she hadn’t panicked—but how could she not? The situation she was thrust into would force any sane person into madness. She did believe, deep within her soul, that he would never harm her. But it was too late to announce her conviction, for he had seen her reaction.

Second chances in life were rare. She had thrown away two opportunities in her lifetime. Evidently, mistakes did repeat themselves. Perhaps she was never destined to find and keep her love. Poor Rose, she’d lost the man she loved and her sanity because she didn’t leave with him when she had the chance and trust him, Miranda had managed to do the same thing, only this time she knew the hurt wouldn’t heal, the truth wouldn’t set her free. She’d done it again; she had cost the man she cared about more than he should have to pay. She’d just done it in a different way.

Doomed. Confused. For the first time since the fire, Mac lost control of his life. He stood outside his uncle’s door, waiting for the doctor to tell him if the old man died or still had a breath or two left.

It was maddening watching his life spin out of control. His uncle had lost his mind, turning on him and trying to kill Miranda. His precious Miranda had left him, alone and hurting. Nothing was what he imagined would happen. His heart ached and pinched with rage.

She was scared of him. The way she shrunk away from him, the look of terror that stung his heart. He knew he mustn’t blame her; the guards were his, and she must have thought he told them to harm her, when it was actually his uncle who had ordered her death.

He reached into his trousers pocket and pulled out her necklace. It was as if he was meant to fall out of her world. Being away from her would kill him; it had killed him before, and it would kill him again. He had searched for her all his life. He planned for years to get her to the island, and fate played in his favor; she had visions, visions that drove her to him.

And to add to the odds, she was writing about his mysterious death. He laughed with bitterness. After all that brought them together, he couldn’t afford losing her. Not now. Not ever.

His stubbornness killed him once; his pride had crushed him
. Love comes from within, not by force.
If she didn’t love him now, maybe she never would. He would beg her, kneel in front of her, but how could he do that? He wasn’t the type to plead for anyone’s love.

The door squeaked open. “Mac,” the doctor’s voice came out as a whisper, pulling him from his hurtful thoughts.

“Has he passed away?” Mac asked.

Doc nodded. “It took him many minutes of suffering. Death didn’t take it easy on the old man. I’m sorry I couldn’t save him.”

He should be sad. Devastated. Instead he felt…nothing.

Mac entered the room; his uncle lay still, as if he were sleeping, awaiting another day. His eyes were closed, but hardness etched his features, as if he would get up any minute now and yell at everyone who disobeyed him.

From behind him, the doctor asked, “Would you like a moment?”

“No, stay.” Mac walked over to the edge of the bed. He stared again at his still body and pale face. The smell of death surrounded him. The faint light from the lamp cast shadows that sent shivers through his bones.

Mac examined him as if he were seeing him for the first time. “Why?” he whispered. “Why did you plan to kill Miranda? Why spread all that hatred? What did you take with you now, old man—power? You left me with nothing but hatred and regret.” Silence answered him with its oppressive weight. There were no answers here, not within this death chamber.

A warm hand rested on his shoulder, comforting him. “I’ll help arrange the funeral.”

Mac laughed, a cold, sardonic sound. Funeral! Who would attend this hateful man’s funeral? Everyone in the village despised his uncle; Mac knew it for a fact.

Looking back at the old man’s life, he couldn’t remember anything happy about it. His life had been consumed with plans to destroy the village people, but he had destroyed a great deal more. He had ruined the beauty of this place, which Mac had built to be a heaven. He’d destroyed the love Mac had finally found in Miranda, who now hated him because of his uncle's wicked ways. Even in his death, his uncle left blackness and evilness behind him. He had destroyed Mac, and he’d had the last laugh.

“Thank you, I’ll take care of the funeral,” Mac told the doctor. He suddenly noticed the dead man’s hand, which clutched a small, pink book. He’d never seen that book before. Mac winced as a cold feeling seeped into his bones.

“Son, don’t be sad,” the doctor said.

Sad? Sorrow wasn’t the emotion choking him. He felt relief, and that distressed him; the last member of his family had left him alone. Not even Miranda wanted to stay with him. Instead of grief, he felt impatient to have everything done, to be alone with his emotions. He swiped at the moisture on his forehead.

Mac heard the Doc’s voice as he opened the door. “We didn’t kill your parents, Mac. “Your uncle was wrong.” His voice was kind and unruffled.

Mac swung his head toward the doctor. A rising wave of heat stung his eyes. “Oh?”

“If you had heard it from me or from the people on the island, you wouldn’t have believed any of us. The book in your uncle’s hand is your mother’s diary. Just read it and you’ll understand. I’ve had it in my house all these years, in a safe box—I don’t know how he got it. His men must’ve stolen it while I was here.”

Mac slumped into a chair, not wanting to hear more. “I want you to know one thing before you read it, Mac,” the doctor said. “Your mother and I did what we believed was best for you. I promised her to be tightlipped about…the things you will read in that diary. I’ll be in your office, waiting for you.” The door closed swiftly behind him.

Mac stared at the closed door, bewildered by how the doctor knew his mother even had a diary. He reached for the diary; although his uncle’s fingers curled around the book, he was able to wrench it free.

Mac stared at the pink book: his mother’s words. He took a deep breath and opened it.

His mother had started writing in the diary early in her marriage. The memory of his parents stung him deeply. Mac opened the book and started reading…thirty years ago.

His eyes widened with each word he read, and it felt as if everything was pacing around him at tremendous speed…

June 15, 1970

Dear Diary,

Before today, you were as blank as my life. Today I met Dr. Elroy Bradford, a nice gentleman. I called him for Alfred, who hadn’t been feeling himself lately. Dr. Bradford and I talked for hours on the patio. I have to shamefully confess, dear diary, that the understanding and compassion he showed me were something I have missed with Alfred.

I felt alive with this man.

Mac flipped the pages, his heart racing and threatening to stop short, his eyes blurry from the rising heat in his veins.

Dec. 03, 1970

Dear Diary,

Alfred’s health has become worse. He is so much into his project that he has lost touch with the world and me altogether. He will hug me briefly, place his head on my shoulder, and stay still for hours. I’ve asked many times what the reason for his moods was, but he won’t tell me. My relationship with Elroy has become solid; I visited him asking for his advice on how to deal with Alfred, or at least how to handle him. And then…it just happened. After a tear from me and a hug from him, we made the mistake that we have tried avoiding many times. I have found the love I’ve longed for and never got from Alfred. Being with Elroy is beyond explanation. I feel joy, happiness, and a reason to live for something so important.

I want to leave Alfred, but my conscience won’t allow it.

Jan. 01, 1971

Dear Diary,

I am pregnant.

Oh dear, I am pregnant and I‘m filled with joy, despite the fact that it’s not Alfred’s; we both knew he couldn’t have children. The baby is Elroy’s; oh God, what will I do? I have to say something to Alfred. I must confess to him. Elroy is happy and actually planning for our child’s future.

I don’t know what to do.

With shaky hands, Mac snapped the book shut and growled, his voice rising from a strangled whisper to a harsh shriek. “No!”

The early morning birds chirped outside her window as Miranda finished packing.

I will not wait. I have to leave now.

Determined to find Mac, she closed her handbag and picked it up. As she headed to the door, the sound of nearing footsteps reached her ears and she heard a door open with a ragged force.

Sounds of arguing erupted from the office. She sidled against the wall and neared the half-open door. An object slammed against the wall, followed by Mac’s furious voice.

“This diary is a lie!” Mac shouted. “How did you know about this?”

“I wouldn’t call your mother a liar, Son.” Miranda heard the doctor’s voice loud and clear. Why was Mac fighting with the doctor? And what diary?

Miranda didn’t like eavesdropping, but curiosity got the best of her, and she had to know.

“Don’t touch me, and don’t call me son,” Mac said, his voice miserable. “You can’t be my father. How? She married my father. How could she cheat on him, how could…I can’t believe any of this!”

“We didn’t consider it cheating,” the doctor was saying. “When she made it clear to your father that she would leave him, he almost lost his mind. And then your uncle stepped in and ruined our plans, mainly for the money.”

“How did he ruin it?”

“She came to see me that night and told me about her suspicions in regards to Ken; she felt that he was up to something. I told her to get you and we would leave the island. We were so close to getting away—but your uncle moved fast and burned the place down with your mother and his brother in it. I tried to save them with the villagers, but we couldn’t.”

“Liar! I saw the villagers burn the house.”

“Your uncle twisted the facts in your mind. He told you stories and you believed every word he said. You were ten years old, a child.”

Miranda’s heart sank in her ribs. Her hand crept to her lips.
Mac is the doctor’s son?
There was no resemblance; Mac looked just like his mother, except his forehead; maybe he’d gotten his hair texture from the Doc. The uncle’s involvement in the burning of Mac’s house and killing his parents made her pause.
Ken was capable of killing me, too.
A cold shiver slid a along her spine as she remembered the way she had accused Mac and the fear he’d seen in her eyes. How he had flinched with pain and disbelief at her cruel accusations. Miranda shook her head; she was so deep in her thoughts she realized she must have missed part of their conversation.

“She had me while she was married to him—what would that make her?” Mac asked. “I hate her. Both of you cheated on the poor man!
He
was my father, not you.”

“Don’t hate her,” the doctor said, his voice softening as if he were begging. “Just read the diary and you’ll know how she suffered.”

“She could have left him instead of cheating.”

“She pitied him. And feared your uncle. Ken was insane and powerful. He could have easily found and killed us all. She feared for your life, mostly.”

“Oh, really?” Mac’s laughter rang with sarcasm. “Now it’s all my fault?”

“No, it’s not your fault. If it were only us, we might have risked trying to start a new life elsewhere. But we couldn’t risk your life; she wouldn’t allow it.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this before? You’ve treated my uncle for years, and he didn’t even flinch when he saw you. Why would I believe what you say, or my mother’s scribbles, for that matter?”

“I didn’t tell you because I was afraid of what your uncle would do to you.”

“Yet you treated his illnesses all these years?”

“I’m a doctor, and that’s my duty. Besides, it was my only chance to see you and make sure you were being well-treated.”

“How noble of you,” Mac growled. “Why didn’t he get rid of you, then?”

“No one would have believed me, and I would end up dead, anyway. He knew he had the upper hand, I was no threat to him, I cared for your safety, and that was enough for me to shut up and say nothing.”