Patricia Hagan (21 page)

Holly laughed, delighted. “I already know that—just as I know I’m being stubborn. But will you be my friend?”

Roger assured her there was no problem there. Then, acquiring a solemn expression, he glanced around the room before confiding, “There’s another reason I hope we can be close, Holly.” He shook himself as though in mental anguish. “It’s my father. I don’t altogether trust his motives where your mother’s concerned. I regret having to tell you this, but I fear for her happiness. I really do.”

Clearly, he had struck a nerve. “Why, Roger?”

Roger went through his paces, reciting the speech he’d rehearsed. “My father is a hypocrite who presents a front of being kind, generous. I know him for what he is. Ruthless. He never cared anything about me or my mother. I watched him mistreat her till she was a cowering shadow.”

Holly shook her head from side to side in denial.

Dropping his chin, Roger stared pensively at the floor. “I’m worried about how he’s going to treat Claudia. I want you to watch out for her as much as you can. I’ll do the same, of course. Not that there’s much we can do,” he finished mournfully.

Holly could only hope this was an exaggeration. Children sometimes saw their parents in a very harsh light. “Thank you. Thank you for being my friend…and my mother’s.” Had she misjudged Roger? She gave him a genuine smile of thanks, and he nodded.

“I’ll be on my way. Claudia said you were insisting on going to the party tonight, stubborn wench that you are.” He grinned fondly. “Get some sleep, my dear. You must be tired, and you’ve got a big weekend coming up.”

He left, and Holly lay down, staring at the ceiling. She had a great deal to think about.

Roger hurriedly left Magnolia Hall. He had one last errand. Find Barney Phillips and explain that he’d had no choice but to shoot Alex Wellman for not following orders and attempting to go too far with hurting Holly.

In her room in the converted barn, Sally pleaded with Norman not to interfere, to do as Holly had asked.

Holly stirred restlessly in her sleep, as though already aware, somehow, of the way the four of them were about to come together.

Chapter Seventeen

Wine dimmed the pain, and Holly took another sip and stared at her reflection. She had managed to camouflage the bruises with several layers of powder. She looked pale, but the fresh bruises were invisible.

Her gown was of gold satin, the ruffled skirt dotted with blue sequins. Her mother’s gift to her was a sheer hair covering studded with tiny diamond chips. When the light caught the net, it gave the illusion that her auburn tresses were studded with stardust.

Yes, she told herself, a bit woozy as she sipped the rich Burgundy, she looked very nice. But where was Sally? She hadn’t been in since earlier in the afternoon. Even Claudia was complaining about her absence.

There was a soft rap on the door, and Holly frowned at the sight of Roger’s beaming face. Where was Sally? “You’re beautiful,” he breathed. “I not only gain a lovely stepmother this weekend, but a gorgeous stepsister, as well.”

Holly thanked him, said that he was outstandingly handsome in a waistcoat of red velvet, a white ruffled shirt, and black cord pants. And he was, too, she told herself. “Excuse me,” she said bluntly. “I’m not quite ready. I was hoping Sally would come in and help me with the finishing touches.”

His eyes were vaguely shadowed. “You don’t need any finishing touches, my dear. One can’t improve on perfection. I came to escort you downstairs.”

Holly shook her head. “No, I’ll wait awhile longer for Sally, Roger.” She thought about the bottle of wine waiting on her dresser, wanting another glass to still the nervousness, knowing that gossip about her attack would have spread. People would be staring. She hated needing the crutch of alcohol, but forgave herself at once. “I’ll be along in a moment.”

“I’m saving every dance for you, Holly. I hope you’re looking forward to it as much as I am.”

She couldn’t speak, warned herself against giving him false hope. Walking to the door and opening it, she managed a wan smile. “Thank you, Roger. I’ll remember.”

Alone once more, Holly paced up and down her room, drank another glass of Burgundy, and finally decided Sally was not going to arrive. She left and made her way down the stairs, holding tightly to the banister.

The great hall was decked in ivory magnolia blossoms and red, yellow, and white roses. The fragrance was divine. A string quartet filled the air with soft, romantic melodies, and along one wall in the parlor, pink linen-covered tables offered rare and tasty appetizers—smoked oysters, pickled clams, fish baked in a batter of meal and cheese, lemon and peach pastries, olives imported all the way from Greece. Jarvis had told her proudly that all of his ships were busy that week just unloading the specialties for the wedding.

Her mother was standing inside the foyer with Jarvis, greeting their guests. Radiantly lovely, she wore a gown of beige lace and satin. About her neck was her wedding gift from Jarvis, an elegant choker of diamonds, emeralds, and rubies. Holly grinned at her, then joined her for a while in the receiving line.

It was a lovely evening, and Holly began enjoying herself immensely, despite curious stares from some of the guests. People were scrutinizing her for evidence of violence. No matter. With Roger constantly refilling her champagne glass, she was far too happy to bother with nerves. She wasn’t the least self-conscious, she found.

At one point, her mother touched her arm and said, “Dear, maybe you’re drinking too much champagne. You seem a bit tipsy.”

Holly giggled. Funny to hear her mother say such a thing. “I’ve never been ‘tipsy,’” she responded saucily. “So I wouldn’t know how it felt. How would you know, anyway, Mother? You can’t know unless you’ve been that way, now can you?”

Just then Roger appeared with another glass, and Claudia snapped, “Please stop drowning her, Roger. She’s practically reeling as it is.”

Holly didn’t hear. She was talking to a man who’d just entered. “Claudia, I will look after Holly,” Roger said angrily. “You look after my father.”

“I’ll see that your father speaks to you about your behavior,” she said, just as angry.

He faced her, so furious that she drew back. “Do that,” he whispered, so quietly that no one heard except the two of them. “Make trouble, Claudia, and you’ll have more trouble than you will believe.”

In her happy stupor, Holly was oblivious to the fireworks between Roger and her mother. It was a wonderful feeling, being in her own world, not worrying about anything. When Roger approached and took her arm, handing her the glass of champagne, she was perfectly content to let him lead her around the room. She had dismissed all her worries, even dismissed the haunting memory of dark, tantalizing eyes, powerful arms, warm lips.

With a startling jolt, time ran together and she found herself staring right into those eyes, the eyes that tortured her dreams. She swayed. Beside her, Roger did not notice, engrossed in conversation with an acquaintance. He dropped his hold on her arm and moved a little away.

She continued to stare at Scott, who was smiling in a mocking sort of way. Did he know she was “tipsy”? Lord, she hoped not. How devastatingly handsome he was in his full-dress uniform—black coat with double rows of brass buttons, gold cord trimming the high collar and cuffs. Braided gold epaulets at the shoulders, light blue trousers with bright red stripes down the sides, a red-fringed sash at his waist.

Finally, he spoke, so low she had to strain to hear him. “You look good, Holly. Neil said you had a few bruises, but you seem to have concealed them.”

He started on by, but Holly grasped at his shoulder, bewildered by this casual demeanor. “Is that all the concern you have for me?” she challenged angrily.

He was expressionless. “If Captain Davis isn’t doing a good job with his investigation into your welfare, then I would certainly be interested in hearing any complaints you might have.”

“That’s not what I mean, and you know it. Am I just an investigation? Someone to turn over to one of your officers? A pesky, bothersome assignment?”

He shook his head, still expressionless. “That’s not the way I would like to think of you, but you’ve left me little choice, don’t you think?”

Suddenly, the room was spinning, the air stifling. Cigar smoke made her feel nauseated. The laughter of the others was deafening. “Never mind, Scott,” she said miserably. “Just forget I said anything at all.” She turned and made her way through the crowd, hurrying as fast as she dared through the kitchen, out the back door and into the cool night.

Lifting her billowing skirts, she ran through the side yard and down the gently sloping land, not stopping—she’d made her way often enough, Lord knew—until she reached a bank overlooking the river. Moonlight filtered down through the graceful, sweeping boughs of one of the few weeping willows Yankee fires hadn’t destroyed. She sank to her knees, running her fingers through a thick bed of cool clover. A teardrop splashed on the back of her hand, then another. The happy, buzzing glow of the champagne had left her.

She’d made a mess of her life by making a promise she couldn’t really have understood. She missed Grandpa unbearably. She cared far too much for Scott Colter, when it was too late to do anything about it. Everything that mattered was gone.

“You can’t keep running away from life, Holly.”

She gasped, jerking around to see Scott staring down at her in the moonlight. “Go…go away,” she stammered. Oh,
why
had she said that?

He sat down beside her but made no move to touch her. “No. I’m not going away. And neither are the other things about your life that are worrying you. You’ve got to deal with them and with me.”

She hiccupped, crying again. ‘I haven’t got any worries. Everything is fine, thank you. And if you would stop bothering me, I’d be completely happy.”

He tried to conceal his amusement, but he couldn’t. “Are you happy out here on the ground, searching for four-leaf clovers, while a party’s going on inside?”

She sniffed, nodding, still staring at the ground. “I was till you came along.”

He laughed then, long and loud. “Why, you’re drunk
. Really
drunk. I ought to throw you down and rip off your clothes and have my way with you. You probably wouldn’t remember a thing about it tomorrow. Then you wouldn’t accuse me of seducing you—like you did the last time.”

She finally decided to face him. “You bastard,” she declared, looking at him steadily. “You conniving, sneaky,
Yankee
bastard. I think I made it perfectly clear that I hate you and never want to see you again.”

He shook his head. “You’ve made nothing clear except that you’re the most stubborn female I’ve ever run up against. You’re also a liar, and not a very good one. You care for me. You care a lot. You’re just too pigheaded to admit it, even to yourself.”

She started to get up, to flee the words and him, but his hand snaked out to grab her arm. “You aren’t going anywhere. You’re going to sit here till you sober up. I’m not going to waste my energy in trying to convince you you’re wrong about me, us, but you’re not going back inside to make a fool of yourself. So keep looking for four-leaf clovers like the little girl you truly are.”

She sighed, sitting back down again, and he released his hold. He was right. “I guess I made a fool of myself,” she admitted. “I’ve been wrong about a lot of things…including that day in the woods,” she said softly, praying he wouldn’t make it harder for her. “I shouldn’t have blamed you. I wanted you to make love to me, but I didn’t want to admit it, even to myself. I was always told it was wrong before marriage. And you turned out to be a Yankee, on top of everything else.”

Tenderly, he brushed a wisp of hair back from her face. She was the loveliest creature he’d ever seen. “I’m not entirely blameless. I should have told you from the beginning who I was, but once I saw how fanatically you hated all Yankees, I didn’t want reality to spoil a beautiful day.”

“Reality,” she laughed bitterly. “Reality? How much nicer life would be if we could just drink champagne and stay warm and live in a dreamworld. No pain, just lots and lots of champagne. And dreams.”

“How would you know when real happiness came to you if you walked around in a stupor?” he asked quietly, and she shrugged, wordless.

There was a silence while she thought, and then she blurted, “Reality is my father being killed by Yankees, my grandfather dying of a broken heart, having bastards try to run me off my land and beat me up.”

“Face it, Holly,” he sighed. “You
must
move off the land—at least for now.”

She jerked her head up, moonlight illuminating red flashes in her cinnamon eyes. “Give in? Never!”

Scott sighed, stared pensively out at the gently rolling river, a wide black ribbon in the shadows. How he wished he could confide in her, tell her the truth, but he couldn’t. Finally, he said, “Maybe it will be over soon.” And maybe it would. A few more pieces of evidence, and he could make his move.

Holly stared at his perfect profile as he gazed at the river. Why did it have to be this way? How could it have been wrong when she’d been so happy with him? How could it?

With a sigh, he turned from the river, looked down at a patch of clover illuminated by moonlight. With a laugh, he reached and plucked a four-leaf clover and held it out to her. “Here. Maybe your luck will change. Maybe you’ll have a life filled with champagne days.”