The Importance of Being Alice (26 page)

“No, I admit that I made a mistake.”

My heart shattered into a billion jagged pieces. I stared dully at him, wondering how anyone could live with a shattered heart.

“Sweetheart, don't look at me like that.” With a pained look, he put his arm around me, pulling my limp body against his. “I didn't mean that I made a mistake in marrying you, not that the marriage—never mind. I meant that I made a mistake in not telling you the truth.”

Wildly, my thoughts shot to his secret spy career. Dear god, was he working for the other side? “What truth?” I asked in a squeaky voice.

“You're right that I didn't want to kiss you.”

I stared at him some more. My brain didn't want to process those words.

“But not because I don't desire you, or want you in my life, or, hell, even want you sitting on my lap when I should be working.” His face twisted, and he dropped his arm from around me. “I didn't want to tell you the truth because . . . well, because of pride.”

“It's because you're a baron and I'm a nobody—”

“Hell, no. You should know me better than that. It was my pride that was threatening to be hurt if you knew the truth about me.”

Oh my god, he
was
an enemy spy!

He took a deep breath, and said quickly, “I'm a weakling, Alice. I have a low pain threshold, and this collarbone has been the very devil to live with since I left the hospital.”

I stared in utter surprise at him. That was the last thing I expected him to say.

“I've been going through the pain medications like they were candy, but I know that can't continue, and they aren't very strong to begin with. I thought if I could keep you busy and at arm's length, then I wouldn't be tempted by you.”

“I don't understand. What does your broken collarbone have to do with kissing me?”

He looked intensely embarrassed. “It hurts to kiss you. Just putting my good arm around you makes the bone ache, and there's no way in hell I can kiss you without wanting to touch you. Without wanting more. I decided that if I focused on writing this damned book, and you were busy organizing things with the castle, then my collarbone would have time to heal.”

“You hurt?” I asked, mentally shaking out the cobwebs of confusion that clogged my brain. “But I was so careful. I made sure I wasn't touching your owie side.”

“The break is such that when you sit next to me on the bed, it jars my collarbone.”

I clapped a hand over my mouth for a moment before saying, “Oh, Elliott. I'm so sorry.”

“I know it wasn't intentional; that's why I didn't want to say anything.”

“Even when you were standing up? That hurt, too?”

“You try moving any part of your body without the movement also moving your torso,” he said with a wry twist to his lips. “Yes, even when we were both standing, it hurt. And when you sat on me, or leaned into me, or hugged me—”

“I am the worse fiancée and wife ever,” I said, wanting to bang my head on the wall. “You were so cold and uninterested. . . . It never occurred to me to ask why. Well, other than the obvious—that you'd decided you made a mistake in marrying me.”

“I would like to be outraged that you had such a lack of confidence in me, but the truth is, my darling, you married a coward,” he admitted with a watery smile. “I didn't want you to know the truth that I was so . . . weak.”

“You're not weak; you're an idiot!” I said, and was about to throw myself against him when I realized what I was doing. Instead, I leaned forward, careful not to touch any part of his body but his lips, and kissed him very, very gently. “Elliott, why didn't you tell me? No, I know you believed I would think the worst of you, but seriously, you idiotic man, why would you not tell me that sitting with you and on you and near you was making your broken bones hurt? I love you, you foolish man. I thought you didn't care about me anymore.”

His eyes were suddenly grave again. “Were you really leaving me?”

I sat back against the wall of the station, placing my hand on his where it rested on his leg. “What time is it?”

“Half four.”

“I've been here for almost four hours. At least three trains going to London have stopped.” I looked at my
friend the clump of dead grass. “I couldn't bring myself to get on any of them. I wanted to. I wanted to leave in a huff, to show you that I didn't give a damn. But every time a train stopped, I couldn't do it. I couldn't take those steps to walk away from you. My inner self kept shouting that I was being a world-class idiot, and that I needed to go right back to you and demand an explanation, and I was just agreeing with it when you sat down.”

“Thank god for your inner voice.” He lifted my hand to his mouth and kissed my fingers. “And thank god for Bertie calling to tell me he'd need seventy-five pounds for a new front tire, or I wouldn't have known you'd left. Alice.” He leaned back, as well, his good shoulder brushing against mine. “I want to kiss you very badly right now. I want to hold you, and breathe in the scent of you, and stroke that lovely freckled skin that covers you. I want to make love to you. Several times. And in many varied ways, some involving your captain's hat. But most of all, I want to know you forgive me for being so selfish.”

“I forgive you for being human, and for feeling pain, and for having a perfectly normal amount of vanity,” I said, smiling at him. “You're going to have to work on my forgiveness for the idiot part of not telling me I was hurting you, but since I'm going to have to do the same for the fact that I didn't talk to you about my feelings, we're pretty even. Well, no, we're not, because I was so self-absorbed that I didn't notice you were in pain.”

“I tried my best to hide it. You're not to blame for not seeing that.”

He rose. It was quick, but even so, I noticed a flash of pain in his eyes at the movement. He held out a hand for
me. I took it, holding on when he was going to let go in order to grab my suitcase. “We really are a pair, aren't we?”

“We are. But I think we're suited, despite that.”

We walked out of the train station. Elliott's car was sitting outside. I tossed my suitcase into the back and, with a long look at him, slid into place behind the steering wheel.

“Do you know how to drive?” he asked, slowly getting into the passenger seat.

“Of course.” There was a clash of gears, a low, ugly grind as I put my feet on the wrong pedals, and an explosive backfire when the car lurched backward. I grinned at him as I got the car into the proper gear. “Driving on the left will be an experience, but I expect I'll soon get the hang of it.”

He said nothing, but hurriedly put on his seat belt.

“You really want to use the captain's hat?” I asked after a few minutes.

“Yes,” he said, surprising me. “You've convinced me that role play might be a fun element to introduce into our intimate moments. Not that I wish to indulge in it all the time, but now and again it might be welcome.”

“Admit it—you really dug the German sex club.”

“I enjoyed the experience before my back seized up, yes.”

“I knew it. We're going to make a fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants-er out of you yet. You'll come to see that spontaneity is the spice of life, and that flinging yourself into adventures without worrying about pesky details brings a zest that makes you feel alive.”

“Adventures like leaving your husband without bothering to tell him?”

I shot him a look. “I didn't say that all adventures turn
out well. Some of them might have benefited from a little more . . . er . . .”

“Forethought?” he offered.

“I was going to say communication, but that does as well, I suppose. You know, when you think about it, we really do complement each other nicely. You'll keep me from doing crazy things like running away because you didn't love me, and I'll keep you from becoming a stodgy man who wouldn't recognize a spontaneous act if it bit him on his extremely biteworthy ass.”

“No doubt it will all work out admirably.”

“I notice you didn't include the parrot in your plans for pirate hat sex—”

“No nipple clamps. I draw the line there.”

“Fair enough.” I laughed.

We drove along in silence for a few minutes before Elliott said, “I have to admit that I'm relieved you didn't leave me because of my family or the castle.”

“What do you mean?”

He made a little gesture without taking his hand off where it rested on his leg. “My family can be a little overwhelming in both number and character. You've only met a couple of my brothers—the full contingent will be sure to arrive for the wedding party.”

“I don't think you have anything to worry about,” I said in a reassuring tone. “I like Bertie and Dixon and of course Gunner, and your mom is really sweet now that she's over that weird little Americans-are-bad shtick, and is no longer the Red Queen. You know, off with her head? Your castle is Wonderland, I'm Alice, and your mom is the Red Queen, although as I said, she's not anymore.”

“If my mother is the Red Queen, then what am I? The Caterpillar?”

“Of course not, hookah aside. You're the White Knight.”

“As I recall, he was quite elderly. And also in
Through the Looking-Glass
, not
Alice in Wonderland
.”

“Pfft,” I said, waving away those objections. “Pedantics. The White Knight was young once, and so you're simply a younger, sexier version.”

He gave me a look that just made me giggle.

“Your ideas of Wonderland aside, you must be aware that there will be certain demands that go along with being Baroness Ainslie. No doubt the local groups will ask you to join committees, and open fetes and participate in various rural schemes. My mother will be delighted to hand those duties over to you—she'd far rather devote her energies to needy causes abroad.”

“Yeah, she said something about being happy that she wouldn't have to go to one more Women's Institute meeting.”

“You don't mind?” he asked, a little worried line between his brows.

“Are you kidding? I'm a baroness—at least I am according to an Internet religion, and I'm going to be a real one in a couple of weeks. I can't wait to swan around and be all Lady Grantham. Can we have some sort of a shindig on the lawn that all the locals come to? With tea tents and pig races and that sort of thing? I will walk around with a big ole hat on, and a pitcher of lemonade, dispensing cooling refreshments and polite chitchat to everyone. It'll be so much fun!”

“You have a strange concept of fun, but you may have a fete at the castle if you like, although I'd prefer you wait until I have the west wing taken care of. I am
concerned about the safety of it with the tourists as is.” He gave me an approving smile.

“I know you are. That's why I ordered up some of this plastic barrier stuff that comes on a roll. They use it back home for chickens. It'll make sure that no one gets near the bad section.” I explained the technical details of the barrier product I'd found online and promptly ordered. “It should be here in a couple of days.”

“That is an excellent thought. Thank you.” He leaned his head back against the seat rest, saying tiredly, “I can't tell you how delighted I am that you have made the castle your priority. It has long needed a mistress who held its interest uppermost in her thoughts. My mother has done her duty, of course, but her interests have always been elsewhere.”

I was silent for a few minutes, not sure if it was wise to taint our newly restored happiness.

Elliott must have sensed the dark turn of my thoughts, because he looked over at me and asked, “You do like the castle, don't you?”

“It's amazing,” I said honestly, but picking my words carefully nonetheless.

He sat up in his seat. “I sense an unspoken ‘but' in that sentence.”

I made a little waffling gesture. “The house is gorgeous, except the bit that's crumbling away and hurting people. But the rest of it—it's very historic. I mean, you can just feel the centuries of history rolling off it.”

“I know it's not in the best of shape, but once the restoration is finished, it will be quite impressive. The facade—”

“Elliott, it's not the facade,” I interrupted. “Or
anything to do with the work you're having done. I think the castle is gorgeous just because it's a castle. I mean, you live in a friggin' castle! Not many people can say that.”

“But . . . ?” he prodded.

I bit my lip, then just blurted it out. “But it's not my home.”

“Of course it is. I own it, and you are married to me; thus it is your home.”

“It's not that.” I was miserable again, wishing I'd never brought the subject up.

“Is it because the estate is in my name? It was entailed upon me, although the entail will be broken with my death, so we will be able to leave it to whichever of our heirs we decide.”

“No, that's fine, I don't care about that. It's just . . .” I bit my lip again, sorting through the feelings I wanted to express. “You know I was a foster kid growing up, right?”

“Yes. You said you did not have a pleasant childhood.”

“It wasn't horrible. I mean, none of my foster parents abused me or anything, but there was never one family who really wanted me. It was like—there's the family . . . and then me, standing to the side. I used to pretend that one day my real mom and dad would swoop down and scoop me up, and tell me how they'd been off in the wilds of South America finding cures for cancer and stuff, but now they were back and I'd have a family again, a real family with a real home.”

Elliott digested this for a few seconds, then, ever the practical man, asked, “What can I do to make Ainslie Castle into a real home for you?”