The Barefoot Bride (46 page)

She soon decided to put an end to his mourning. "I would have a word with you before you leave for your office," she commanded when he entered the foyer.

Saxon ignored her and reached for his hat. "It'll have to wait. I've pressing business to—"

"May I remind you Blackwell Enterprises belongs to me? I can fire you if I wish."

He could almost feel her scrawny neck between his hands. With extreme effort he managed not to change the thought to reality.

"In the drawing room," Araminta said, leading the way. "I'll get right to the point, Saxon. The sole affair you've attended in months was that wedding. You have been avoiding that which you can no longer avoid. You must return to society, this time with a respectable woman."

Max and Bunny's wedding, Saxon mused. If not for Chickadee's sweet meddling and faith in the couple, their relationship never would have begun, much less ended in marriage.

Keely.
He caressed her memory mentally, as he did daily. "My divorce from Keely is not yet final."

"The divorce will surely be final within the next few weeks. That is how long you have to find a new bride. Why, the day your divorce comes through could be your wedding day!"

He watched a smile slide over her face, like a pale snake slithering over white sand. "Courting takes time."

"If I allowed you to have your way in this matter, I imagine your courting would never begin! No, Saxon. It begins today. I've arranged an outing for you. You are to escort Myrtle Windsor to an art exhibition at two-thirty this afternoon. Ruford Sinclair surprised all of Boston by putting his collection of masterpieces on display at the Athenaeum."

For a long moment, he could only stare at her, his rage too huge to surmount. "How dare you—"

"How dare I? Why, it's simple. I dare, I do."

She was glaring at him with the malevolent stare that used to terrify him. But now... He stared back at her, feeling none of the fear of his boyhood, for there was no frightened child inside him any longer. That youngster's tears had been dried by the soothing kisses of a mountain girl.

But though his remembered horrors had vanished, the woman who'd caused them remained. Araminta retained control over his future. He would fight her no longer. What would be the use anyway? He'd lost Chickadee, and without her, he cared not a whit about the years to come.

He walked to a small table and picked up the vase it held. "Wedgwood." He rolled the vase around in his hands.

"Put that down, Saxon. It is costly."

He tossed her the taunting smile he knew she detested. "You hated Keely, didn't you?"

"I made no secret of it."

He threw her vase into the air, catching it just before it would have crashed back to the table.

"Saxon, put that down!"

His smile mocked her again. "If you hated her, then you probably hate everything associated with her. Therefore, everything that comes from her mountains would be as repulsive as she. Correct?"

"I doubt anything her mountains hold would be of interest to me."

"Do you think this Wedgwood vase is beautiful?" Saxon pressed.

Her eyes narrowed with bewilderment. "It is magnificent. Now put it down!"

He ignored her command. "Josiah Wedgwood. An extraordinarily talented potter." Again, he tossed the vase toward the ceiling and caught it.

"Saxon, I am warning—"

"It's made of nice clay, wouldn't you say? So smooth to the touch, so pleasing to the eye."

"Give it to me!"

"Of course. Anything you say." He threw it to her.

She failed to catch it and it fell to the marble table beside her, shattering. "Oh, look what you've done!" she shrieked and gathered up the jagged pieces of her treasure.

Saxon folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the wall. "So sorry. I guess my aim was off. But really, Grandmother, you shouldn't be at all upset. After all, you said yourself you didn't want anything from those Blue Ridge mountains."

Araminta glared at him, dazed with fury.

"Once, an Englishman visited those
worthless
Appalachian Mountains," Saxon explained. "He found clay in them. Beautiful clay. As he held it, he thought of his friend, Josiah Wedgwood. After haggling with the Cherokee Indians who lived in those mountains, he was able to take a sample of the clay back to England with him. He showed it to Josiah, and the proof of what Mr. Wedgwood thought about it is now in your hands, Grandmother. Josiah was so delighted with the wonderful clay, he made a trip to the Blue Ridge himself. He took tons of it back to England, and—"

"That is enough!" Araminta stood and shook a piece of the vase at him. "I do not care if the clay came from those Carolina hills or the pits of hell! The fact remains you have destroyed something of great—"

"And suddenly I am filled with the need to ruin more!" It took him a mere second to cross the room and yank the ebony cane from her hand. He stared down at the hateful object for one moment before he tightened his hold on it and took a great, rapid swing at the crystal chandelier above. Araminta pulled at his elbow, but he brushed her away as if she were nothing but a bothersome insect.

"You're insane!" she charged, her fingers quivering around her brooch.

Saxon continued to bash the fixture, ignoring her until there was nothing left of the chandelier but its sterling silver arms. It somehow reminded him of his destructive spree with Chickadee so long ago, and it gave him a curious pleasure to see the crystal scattered everywhere. Spying an unbroken prism, he picked it up and handed it to Araminta. "This crystal is like ice," he growled, his features twisted with disdain. "Cold and hard. Just like your heart."

Araminta raised her hand, the prism locked between her bony fingers, and started to throw it at him. Saxon caught her wrist and squeezed hard. "Spider Woman," he spat, and saw that her stare held the tiniest fragment of fear. "Where is your poison now?"

"Release me!" she screeched.

Saxon laughed before he let go of her arm.

Araminta shivered with apprehension, like an animal that senses its own defeat. Saxon's gaze held not a glimmer of the fear she'd worked so hard to instill. Yes, he'd stood up to her several times in the past, but always with a thinly veiled anxiety. Now it was completely gone. When had this happened, and how? "What are you going to do?" she screamed when he started for the foyer.

He stopped under the arch of the doorway and leaned against it. "Why Grandmother! Have you lost your confidence? Are you so unsure of yourself now that you believe I will disobey you?"

She could read nothing behind the contempt in his eyes.

"I go," he began, then made her wait while he lit a cheroot, "to propose to Myrtle Windsor."

Araminta's eyes widened. "But—you will
propose
to her? You barely
know
her!"

He blew a smoke ring and waited until it vanished before he spoke again. "I've seen her once or twice. I think I may even have danced with her on occasion. I don't know. All Boston maidens look and act the same to me."

Araminta was thoroughly baffled. "But surely you do not believe Myrtle will agree to marry you without becoming well-acquainted with you! Why, she is but one of the long list of maidens I have chosen for you to—"

"I choose her."

Araminta looked fixedly at him, trying in vain to understand if he had some scheme that would ruin her plans.

"And as far as her acceptance of my proposal..." Saxon ventured, "Do you think me stupid, Grandmother? I've received over a hundred invitations to various affairs since Keely left. Invitations from every damn matchmaking mother in the city. For what mother wouldn't jump at the chance to see her precious little girl wed to the man who will soon inherit the famed Blackwell fortune? Myrtle will marry me. I will return this afternoon a betrothed man. You may plan the wedding, just as you have planned my entire life."

Araminta was convinced. Everything about Saxon—his voice, his stance, his choice of words...

He would do exactly what he said he would. "Myrtle will make you an excellent wife."

"All I want from her is the heir you have badgered me about for years. After I get a son on her, she will cease to exist for me. And hopefully you too will cease to exist. After you see me married and lay eyes on your great-grandson, you may die as you've been forever promising to do. The Blackwell fortune will pass to me, and you may lie in your grave satisfied all has happened according to your commands."

He left the house. As the coach carried him toward the Windsor estate, he thought of Myrtle. He knew her better than Araminta believed. He'd lain between her thighs once, long ago. And the memory of that night was what induced him to choose her for his bride.

She was a cold bitch with not an ounce of passion in her perfect body. She was a living glacier, nothing at all like the warm, loving mountain girl whose spirit accompanied him wherever he went. No, Myrtle would never remind him of Chickadee, and that was exactly why she would be his bride.

The barouche stopped. Saxon stepped out and stared at the magnificent Windsor mansion. Within waited his future wife. He walked mechanically up the alabaster steps and pounded on the door.

*

The day had arrived. Saxon read the letter from Mr. Devonshire, the Blackwell attorney, a dozen times before he finally tore it into shreds and flicked the pieces off the desk in his bedroom.

The divorce would be final today. He had but to sign the necessary papers. Had but to sign his heart and soul away on the dotted line.

Anguish crushed him, as it had ever since she'd left. "Keely, my own true heart," he whispered to her, willing his words to somehow find their way to her. "God, how I miss you, love you."

The rustle of silk caught his attention. He looked up and saw Araminta. "Have you gone to see Mr. Devonshire?" she demanded.

"Maybe I have, maybe I haven't."

She knew he hadn't gone. "I have just returned from seeing Myrtle and her parents. The wedding will take place this very evening at the Windsor estate, in a matter of hours! You must go see Mr. Devonshire now. When you return you will barely have enough time to dress for the ceremony."

"So you arranged it after all. My divorce and wedding the same day. My, how busy you've been."

"It will be a quiet affair with only family present. I saw no need for a grand ceremony—a ceremony that cannot take place until you go sign the final draft of the divorce! Go sign the papers, Saxon! You—"

"I'll go later and not a second sooner. Calm yourself. Remember your heart. Or would you like to add your own funeral to the divorce and wedding you have already arranged? I'll stop and see Mr, Devonshire on my way to Myrtle's. What does it matter if the papers are signed hours before the wedding or mere minutes? Either way, I'll be divorced when I marry Myrtle."

Araminta shuddered with impatience and the urgent need to see him married before something prevented it from happening. "Oh, very well! Get dressed now. Be quick about it! I will wait for you downstairs and accompany you to both Mr. Devonshire's office and the Windsor estate. I will see you properly wed this day, Saxon. Nothing, no one, will thwart the marriage!"

She hobbled out of the room, leaving Saxon to dress for his wedding. He chose a black suit to reflect his black mood and not the pearl-gray outfit Myrtle had requested he wear. As he dressed, he was somehow able to remove a part of himself from his body, and as odd as it was, he felt as though he were watching another man prepare for his wedding. For he was already married. Divorce or no divorce, Chickadee would remain the wife of his heart.

Ready, he went to the door, paused, and looked back into the bedroom. It would be the last time he ever saw it. He and Myrtle would share a different room, one that held no reminders of the girl who'd once slept with him here. Gently, so he wouldn't disturb a single memory, he shut the door.

He reached the staircase, but the sound of someone weeping stopped him. He listened again and realized it came from the room Candice was fond of calling the sun room. She often took Desdemona there.

Desdemona. Weeks had passed since he'd seen her. She'd refused to see him. She'd even thrown a pitcher at him the last time he'd tried to visit her. After that he'd given up. She was angry with him, and he knew it was because Chickadee was gone. She blamed him for it, and rightly so, but how could he make her understand why he'd done what he'd done when she wouldn't even let him in the same room with her?

He looked at his watch. The wedding was an hour and a half away. Time enough for him to try and explain things to Desdemona. He'd force her to listen if he had to sit on top of her to do it!

The bright, sunny room down the hall was a cold, sad room in Saxon's eyes as his gaze rested on Desdemona's sobbing form. She sat in the far corner, Chickadee's quilt in her lap.

"Desdemona." He reached for her, pulled her to her feet, and withdrew his handkerchief to dry her tears.

She pushed him away. Saxon caught her face and forced her to hold still. The taut feel of her skin and the sharp definition of her bones beneath his fingers made him gasp. His trembling hands traveled over her shoulders, her rib cage, even her ankles. Her frail form horrified him.

"Desdemona! You're nothing but flesh-covered bones!"

His shout frightened her. Fleeing to the side, she tried to escape, but Saxon held her firmly to him. She fought him like a wild thing, scratching and kicking out at him. From her clenched teeth came a hissing sound before she bit her lip, drawing blood. The sight of the red droplets against the gardenia cream of her skin sent a surge of panic tearing through Saxon.

"All right!" he screamed and released her. "Let it all out! Show me how mad you really are!"

She heaved with exhaustion and hostility. Then, flinging herself against him, she beat at his chest. Saxon stood still and allowed her to vent her rage, knowing this was the explosion of many, many years of pent-up, seething emotion. She'd suffered every bit as much as he. She'd suffered then, she was suffering now.