Edge of Time (Langston Brothers Series) (30 page)

The boy’s eyes widened in shock as he scampered away, and James Rowe he
sitated for a moment.
“I’ll see to her, Craig.”

“Thank you
, James.”

Nevertheless, work, proved to be an extremely trying ordeal
. Several more wounded men were transported in that day, three died shortly after arrival
…

Craig made his way home that evening with a heavy,
def
eated
,
heart
.
Climbing
up the
stone steps, he hesitated fi
ght
ing
the urge to run from the house. The moment he passed through the door he knew
an inevitable
battl
e
with Marissa would ensue
.
On the other hand…
drowning his problems in booze didn’t sound quite so appealing tonight. A quick glance at his silver po
cket watch showed the time. Six
-thirty. The servants would not leave until about seven. Sucking in a long breath he strode determinably up the steps and inside.

The house was peaceful, quiet, and a small degree of tension eased from his shoulders. Marissa hadn’t been waiting to stare accusingly from the hall this evening and the only sound readily meeting his ears was that of the mantle clock
tick, tick, tick
. Striding through the lower level of the house he didn’t see her anywhere. Could she have left him? The thought left him reeling… Reeling and hurt and
angry.
Which really wasn’t fair because he’d considered handi
ng her over to the authorities.

Following the scent of fresh bread into the kitchen he found Mrs. Potts, the cook he employed, and stole a hunk of the loaf she was slicing.

“Good evening
,
Dr. Langston.” Mrs. Potts bestowed him with her ever warm smile.

“Have you seen my wife recently?” Craig asked the question so heavy on his mind.

“Mrs. Langston wasn’t feeling well today. I brought her some soup at noon, but she didn’t eat it. She’s been abed for most of the day.”

Not feeling well?
Marissa was ill? A sickening dread filled him at the thought that something could be terribly wrong. Quickly mounting the stairs to their bedchamber, he opened the door without knocking. The room was dark save for the evening light seeping in through the drapes pulled over the windows and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust enough for him to spot the slender form of his wife curled beneath the bedclothes. Silently, he crossed the room and stared down at her. His breath caught in his throat
. She was beautiful in sleep. S
o peaceful and innocent
. How could he believe the vicious tales circulating about her? The thick expanse of her golden
hair shone like silk around her head and ever so gently he reached out to tuck a thick piece behind her ear.

What would he do without her?

Never taking his eyes from her face he sank quietly onto the bed, bracing one arm on the mattress behind her. Slowly she stirred and raised her sleep- weighted lids. A smile curved her lips. “I love you,” she murmured sleepily, letting her lids flutter closed again.

Guilt struck him full in the chest.
Craig forced himself to s
teady his voice. “How are you?
” he whisp
ered softly.
“Mrs. Potts said you weren’t feeling well.” He bent to press a gentle kiss to her forehead. “Is everything all right?”

More awake now, she wiggled onto her back and cocked her head to the side, “I’m fine,” she answered with a yawn. “
I just feel really tired today.
I think it’s all the stress.”

Craig gazed into the dark chocolate eyes that perfectly
contrasted her buttery hair and found himself drifting in…
falling under her spell.
Afraid to shatter the peace of the moment, he said nothing, just lifted
her hand to press a soft kiss on
the palm.

“Your whiskers tickle,” she giggled. “I like it.”

He smiled, leaning in to scrape a bristled cheek against hers and for a moment all doubts faded.

“Do you really think I’m crazy?”

And there it was. Reality. Doubts returned. The painful truth returned and Craig just wanted to…
break something
. Something expensive. Something that would make a lot of noise and a
huge
mess. Shaking his head to clear the incredibly childish thought, he drew a
long breath before answering.
“No, I don’t.” The words were quiet but gruff as he spoke. “Which leaves me more than a little confused as to what I’m supposed to believe.”

Marissa swallowed and fought back another wave of the nausea which had assailed her throughout the day. “Look Craig I know it sounds crazy and I know I wouldn’t believe someone who told me a story like the one I told you.” She paused. “But it is true. I can prove it.”

He stared straight forward, struggling with himself for a long moment, “Marissa,” his voice was ragged. “I don’t want to be lied to or played for the fool. But just the other day I was in a literal fist fight with a man I have known my entire life because he believes my wife is a goddamn Yankee spy, which she probably is.” He rose and turned his back.

“I’ve been accused of fathering another woman’s bastard child and, not only does my wife not believe me innocent of such an act, but I am forced to either believe a ridiculous fabrication as to where she comes from or face serious doubts about her extramarital activities.”

He strode with hands clenched to the door, trembling as renewed anger swept away the gentleness he’d felt upon waking her. “I need another drink.” He slamming the door behind him. “Damn it,” he cursed.
I’ve made her cry again.
Her sobs followed him down the stairs.

*
             
*
             
*

Marissa lacked the energy to follow him and demand that he see her proof. Instead she lay
on the bed,
letting the tears saturate her pillow. She felt completely wretched, which did not make the doubts of their relationship or her present state any easier to deal with. What was she going to do? And more importantly, what was she going to believe? Had her husband strayed from her with Kirsten Jamison? With her whole heart she wanted to deny it, but
a midwife confirmed Kirsten
was pregnant, and Craig had admitted to waking naked in her bed.

A soft knocking at the door intruded upon her thoughts and Marissa flung the sheet over her head. She didn’t want anyone, especially Craig, to see her like this. The door creaked as someone peaked into the darkening room and soft footfalls padded across the floor. It quickly became apparent that the intruder was not her husband. Pulling the sheet back slightly, she saw the smiling, compassionate face of Mrs. Potts.

“Your husband asked me to bring some dinner up to you before I leave for the night.” the cook set a tray laden with a steaming cup of broth, a crustless sandwich, and a plate of fresh fruit on the bed stand.

“Where is he?” Marissa asked as visions of him stumbling into the house drunk in the middle of the night crowed into her mind.

The older woman smiled from the side of the bed. “In his study I believe.” With a knowing
look on her face she continued,
“Perhaps you should go and speak to him.”

“As if he would listen.
Men!”
She spat the last word out.

Mrs. Potts chuckled, plumping the pillows behind Marissa. “Sometimes men just need a little encouragement,” she said. “In twenty-five years of marriage I have had my share of cross words with my husband and in my forty-eight years I have met a goodly number of men. I can tell you that Dr. Langston is a good sort.” The woman began to move toward the door. “Why you should have seen how worried he was when I told him you hadn’t been well today.” Before she closed the door behind her Mrs. Potts said, “Good night Mrs. Langston.”

It took a Marissa a full twenty minutes, nibbling at the fruit and sipping the rich beef broth, but a last
she
gathered up enough courage to descend the stairs. If Craig was out drowning his woes in liquor again she would leave at first light but if he was still home… She would try and reason with him. A telltale shimmer of light leaked beneath the closed door of his study and, drawing a slow breath, she gripped the door knob.

*
             
*
             
*

Craig sat at his desk staring at the mostly empty crystal decanter of bourbon in front of him. Considering it had been full the night before, he must have imbibed considerably more than he’d initially thought himself capable. He hated the thought of Marissa crying in their room and hated all the more that it was his fault. A rattling of the door handle halted his brooding. He glanced up as she opened the door.

Given the expression on her lovely it was difficult not to cross the enormous chasm between them and gather her into his arms. But the rift was just too large. He clenched his fists beneath the cover of his desk.

She stared at the decanter. “How much have you had to drink?”

“Tonight?” He lifted his hands. “Not a drop. Last night? More than I care to remember.” Leaning back in the chair he rubbed a weary hand across his bristly jaw. “What is it Marissa?”

She stood frozen in the doorway, as if teetering on a precipice and totally unsure of what to do.
Quietly she moved across the room, the long nightdress swirling about her legs. “I do not wish to fight with you, Craig, but mor
e than our marriage is at stake
here. My very life could depend on whether or not you believe me.”

He sighed heavily. “Look, Marissa I don’t know what to believe, but if you have proof I will go with you in the morning to see it. All right?”

She stood still, searc
hing his face, then nodded. “Thank you.
”
She
turned to go.

Craig jumped up, caught her and pulled her onto his lap as he sat
back in the oversize chair.

“Let’s go to bed,” he breathed into her hair.

“You mean you don’t want to sleep down here again?”

“No. One night of that was more than enough.” Standing, he carried her up the stairs trying, not to dwell on
how perfect and warm
she felt in his arms. Setting her onto the bed and pulling the coverlet over her Craig turned to undress before sliding beneath the covers on his side of the bed. Closing his eyes he prayed for sleep to come quickly and grant him an escape from the turmoil of his life and the intoxicating nearness of his beautiful wife.

She was watching him. He could sense it.

Reluctantly Craig opened his eyes and raised himself up on an elbow, “Marissa, now what is it?” The pained expression on her face spoke volumes. The moment he’d agreed to see her evidence of time travel the next issue in their list of problems had crept into the light. R
olling onto his back he groaned.
“This is about Kirsten Jamison isn’t it?”