A Wedding Story (8 page)

“I—” He cleared his throat and tried again. “Here.” He thrust the negligee at her as if he couldn’t wait to rid himself of it. She snatched it away and tucked her hands behind her back—foolishly late, but she couldn’t help herself.

“One pack,” he told her, turning abruptly. “As long as you keep it down to one, I’ll let you decide what goes in it.”

“How magnanimous of you.”

“Don’t you forget it,” he said, an automatic rejoinder but without his usual relish for the byplay. He strode toward the door, head bent, intent upon escape.

The fabric floated over her hands, a gossamer touch, and she shivered, remembering the look on his face. Her only solace was that he was clearly as affected as she.

“Jim?” she called after him.

He paused, one hand on the doorframe.

She waited for him to turn, and when he didn’t, tried again: “Jim?”

He flinched, lifted his head so he could—just barely—be said to be looking at her.

Casually, she made a gesture, waving the flutter of shameless fabric in the air like a red flag before a bull. “Two bags,” she said.

His eyes flashed, then darkened with heat. For good measure she lifted the gown and rubbed the fabric against her cheek. “I’m going to miss this.” His jaw dropped a full inch lower. “Two bags,” she repeated.

“Two bags,” he agreed, and lunged through the door.

Two and a half days later, Kate’s horse trudged along a road hugging the north coast of Massachusetts while Kate did the same thing she’d done every minute of the day since they’d quit that little shack: marveling that she had ever, for one single second, considered this foolishness a good idea.

Only a mile or so down the road that first morning they’d stopped at a small farmhouse. Jim left her stewing in the yard—having given in on the “two bags” issue, he’d made it clear in no uncertain terms that he wasn’t surrendering on this one—while he went in to negotiate.

He’d refused to tell her what he’d said. But somehow, without ever dipping into her purse, he’d managed to procure not only a healthy chunk of good yellow cheese and a nice loaf of bread for their breakfast but also a plodding little mare. She wasn’t half the horse that Chief was, but it was far better than having him walking while she rode. And having him ride
with
her—well, that wouldn’t bear thinking about. Except she did, too often, and in far too lurid detail.

And so they rode, until Kate’s legs cramped and her bum complained. They caught meals where they could and slept in places that made that decrepit shed of the first night seem like the Rose Springs Hotel. And Kate cursed the damn fool idea that had prodded her into this in the first place.

Okay, so she’d had no place to go, nothing to do. The sisters she’d spent most of her life raising were settled, her husband dead. She’d negotiated the squabbles between her stepchildren over the estate to the best of her abilities, given that, despite her hopes and persistent efforts, they’d never regarded her as more than an interloper.

Nobody needed her anymore. Her sisters had told her to do something for herself, to take the risk she’d never taken, but it was hard to do something for oneself if one didn’t have the means to pay for it. The doctor’s invitation to this fiasco had fallen into her lap at what she now considered a despicably weak moment.

They’d pushed harder today, past the time they would have normally stopped. The fading sun sent deep shadows snaking across the road. The air held the briny tang of the ocean—they’d glimpsed it twice in the last hour, when the road dipped tight to the coast before pushing back into the woods—and she could hear the crash of the waves muffled through trees. Sometimes louder, sometimes softer, ever present.

They rounded a curve and there it was, a massive, horror-tale castle awkwardly perched on a rocky bluff as if it knew it had never been intended for this place. The warm, buff stone clashed with the cooler tones of the gray granite beneath. The walls were bare, sharp-cornered, as if no native vines could find purchase there.

Though it had stood empty only ten years, after the shipping magnate had been finally carted away to the sanitarium for good, it looked like it had been abandoned a century ago. Most of the windows were gone; someone had bothered to board up only a few. One pane of diamond-shaped glass remained intact, high on the lone tower, glinting gold in the lowering sun.

Brush choked the lawn, hawthorn and brambles creeping in from the surrounding forest. It soon became easier to dismount, tie their horses, and pick their way across on foot.

“A moat.” He chuckled without amusement. “Why do Americans think there always has to be a moat?”

“Because we never do anything halfway, of course.”

They smelled it before they reached it, the fetid, rank odor of unmoving water and the things that had died in it. It had to be a good thirty feet wide. The depth was harder to judge. A good ten feet of slick, algae-clotted wall sheered down from the edge until it met the green surface, so thick with scum that it looked as if one might walk right across.

And since what had once been the draw bridge now lay beneath them, a pile of grayed lumber, splinters spearing up like spikes on a mace, they may very well have to.

Jim stood so close to the edge of the moat the scuffed toes of his boots extended a full inch over the brink. “Jim, get back.”

He didn’t move, just kept staring up at the ridiculous structure, his eyes hooded, jaw set. He lifted his head, looking up at the crooked heights of the tower, and swayed a little.

“Would you just get back, you stupid man!”

His head jerked back before he turned her way. “I’m not going to fall,” he told her. “But it’s nice to know you worry about me.”

As if she were fool enough to worry about him. A woman who worried about a man like him, a man who spent half his life in dangerous places, clinging to the side of a mountain, rafting down rivers that had swallowed dozens of men whole, would forfeit countless nights’ sleep staring at the ceiling and imagining the worst.

She simply wasn’t that dumb. And all those nights during which she’d memorized every fold in the silk canopy over her bed, learned exactly where the moonlight fell on her wall every hour between midnight and sunrise—it was only ridiculous coincidence that so many of them happened shortly after one of his letters arrived.

“I wasn’t worried about you,” she snapped. “But having my partner die in the first week doesn’t bode well for my chances of winning.”

Pain streaked through his sherry wine eyes, causing her to realize the implications of her words. “Oh, Jim, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean…I didn’t think…darn it!” Unthinkingly, she placed her hand on the tense muscle of his forearm. “I never for an instant meant to stir up bad memories. Nor ever, ever believed the papers had the right of it and the tragedy was your fault.”

“It doesn’t matter.” He contemplated her hand on his arm for a moment. His shirt was rolled up, his skin dark beneath her fingers, encased in thin cotton not quite as white as it had been two days ago. She felt the flex of muscle beneath her fingers, perceptible even through the cloth, too interested to move her hand away even though she knew she should. Without realizing what she’d intended, she squeezed, marveling that his flesh had no give to it at all.

“It doesn’t matter what I think?”

“It doesn’t matter what anybody thinks,” he said, voice utterly without expression, and shook off her hand.

Doesn’t it? she wondered. Then why did he look like that, hollow-eyed, pale?

“We’re already behind.” He stepped over the edge of the moat, skidding down two feet as he dug in his heels. He dislodged a clump of mud that tumbled down and plopped into the green water, punching a dark hole in the scum that was quickly swallowed up by the backwash. “Time to get moving.”

“Where are you going?”

The look he tossed her was all too familiar. The
you’re pretty, but you’re not too quick on the uptake, are you?
look. “Where do you think?”

“Through
that
?”

“How else?”

“How else do you suppose everybody else got there?” Somehow she could not imagine the prince of…whatever he was the prince of…trailing his beautiful silk robes through that. But then, he probably sent his minions into the muck while he relaxed in a tent with one of those poor women.

Jim hooked a thumb in the direction of the remnants of the drawbridge. “Over that, I imagine. But I don’t think it’s an option for us.”

“But—”

“See how gray most of the wood is, how pale the sharp edges are? It hasn’t been down long.”

“Oh.” She hadn’t noticed the details, but it was perfectly obvious now that he pointed it out. “Wonderful. That bridge has stood for decades and it falls down just when we need it.”

There was that look again, so dismissive that she was half tempted to give him an assist down that slope—with her foot.

“Somebody smashed it after they’d gotten their clue?”

He inched halfway down. “You can bet on it.”

“But that’s not fair!”

That made him laugh, so much so he had to grab for a protruding root to steady himself. “So says the queen of fair play. Or should I say the ace.”

“Point taken,” she admitted. “But the rules…”

“You’ll find the rules pretty darn flexible when fifty thousand dollars, not to mention a lot of pride, is at stake. We’ll be lucky if someone didn’t booby-trap this damned moat.”

“Booby traps?” She eyed the slick water with open suspicion, half expecting spears to pierce the undulating green. Jim was only one short slide from the edge. “Wait!”

“For what?” He probed the edge with his toe. Muck rippled sluggishly away from the contact.

“How deep do you think that is, anyway?” Nerves jittered in a stomach already offended by the stench.

“What do you care? No one’s asking you to come along.”

He said it so easily, as if it had never even occurred to him that she might try. If she didn’t go now, she’d be sitting in the shade with a fan the entire trip, waiting for him to do all the work. Tempting, but she’d committed to doing this and she was damn well going to
do
it. “Of course I’m coming!”

“I wouldn’t really recommend it.”

“I want to come,” she said, with enough fake enthusiasm to choke a bull.

He snorted, then waved her nearer. “Come on, then.”

“How deep?”

“What does it matter? I can swim.”

“I can’t,” she lied.

Frowning in exasperation, Jim glanced up and down the wall of mud. “Hand me that stick.”

“This one?” The branch, six feet long and no thicker than her thumb, decorated with a few shriveled oak leaves, balanced on the edge of the ledge. She held on by the very tip and extended it to him, though her nose didn’t appreciate bending so close to the moat.

“Thanks.” He yanked it from her grasp. Unprepared, she wavered on her perch as her stomach lodged in her throat.

Jim jabbed the stick into the muck. It sunk in two feet and stuck there, vibrating like a tuning fork. “Two feet. Good enough?”

“Wonderful.” Just wonderful. She’d been hoping it was deep enough to swallow up that stupid stick. Two feet gave her no excuse at all.

Jim waded in, water lapping at his shins.

“How’s the water?” she asked, as sprightly as if they were in Newport and he’d just dipped a toe into the frothy ocean.

“Slimy.” He surged forward.

“Wait!”

“What
now
?” he asked, irritation finally getting the better of him.

She dredged up the most winning smile she could manage. Odd, how the encouraging expressions, always so easy for her to wield, were becoming so hard for her to aim convincingly his way. “There’s no reason for both of us to ruin our shoes.”

“I already said you didn’t have to come.”

“There are…other options.”

Hands on his hips, shin deep in muck, he stared at her in disbelief. “You want a
ride
?”

“Oh, it’s not like you allowed me to bring along so many shoes that I can afford to waste a pair for no good reason.” She caught herself halfway to a pout. Petulance might have worked when she was seventeen, but she could do much better now. “And it’s not as if you’d have any trouble carrying me,” she purred, her lashes fluttering, casting a provocative look down his strong frame.

“Oh, no you don’t.” He surged toward her. “
Don’t
try that on me.” He pitched his voice high, the annoying whine of a mosquito, and mimicked: “Oooh, you big strong man. You simply
must
rescue little ol’ me.”

“I wouldn’t do that,” she said, trying to look offended, knowing a smile was on the verge of betraying her.

“Of course not.” He turned around, presenting her with a broad, cotton-clad back. “Climb on.”

“But I thought you said…”

“Not because you simpered at me.” He glanced over his shoulder at her. “But because you’re right. It would be stupid for both of us to ruin our shoes.”

You’re right.
Lord, but those words from him could keep her going a while. She began to gather her skirts but felt the heat of his steady regard. “Do you mind?”

“Not a bit. Go right ahead.”

After ten seconds it became clear that he wouldn’t be shamed into politely turning his back. Kate bent to her skirts again, feeling heat climb her cheeks no matter how many times she told herself not to be girlish. It was not as if she hadn’t flashed her cleavage at him that first night with ruthless abandon. But that had been so calculated and detached there had seemed nothing whatsoever sexual about it. But now, as he watched her with open appreciation, she felt anything but detached.

She hadn’t been shy about such a silly thing since she was barely into her teens. And so she yanked up her skirts in one abrupt motion, drawing them nearly to her knees, giving him a full view of stocking-clad ankles, a long length of shin. “You’re going to have to turn around now,” she told him.

“Huh?”

“So I can get on.”

He shook his head. “Of course.” He spun around, stirring up a small whirlpool around his ankles.

His head was bent. The thick, rich waves of his hair had been clipped short midway down his strong, dark neck, a faint V arrowing down until it disappeared into his collar. His shoulders were broad, a lovely width of muscle beneath limp cotton.

She swallowed. Saving herself from wallowing through that nasty water had seemed like such a good idea at the time. But lately all her good ideas seemed to have unintended consequences. “Umm…”

“You’ve got two seconds before I start walking. If you want to cross after that, it’s going to be under your own steam.”

Gingerly, she stepped as close to the edge of the water as she could manage without actually touching the slop. Then she reached out, put one hand on his shoulder, and jumped. Skirts billowed around her, around him, as she latched on, arms around his neck, legs hugging his side.

“Jesus!” He staggered back. “You’re not as light as you look.” He leaned forward, trying to find his balance, then tugged at her arms clenched around his neck. “You’re strangling me.”

“I’m so very sorry,” she said, and squeezed tighter.