The Saint (12 page)

“Don't be. The protesters are right—it is an antiquated system. And besides—” he slapped the back of a man they were about to pass “—now they can give the title to Roddy here, who will make a fantastic Ringmaster.”

Roddy turned and, grinning, cuffed Kieran on the shoulder. “Ringmaster? Yeah, isn't that always the way? I'm always feasting on the pitiful crumbs you leave behind.” He turned, apparently belatedly realizing Claire was there, too. “Hi, Claire! Sorry. Didn't mean to sound bitter in front of a lady.”

Claire gave Roddy a cautious smile. Kieran had noticed that Claire was even less comfortable around Roddy than she was around the others. Maybe she knew that, as Kieran's best friend, Roddy might have heard the truth about their impulsive wedding.

Kieran took her hand. She had no need to worry about Roddy, who was always spouting nonsense
just for fun, but who had never in his life spilled a secret that mattered.

“We just came down to pick up our posters,” Kieran said. “We're joining the protesters.”

“The hell you are.” Roddy shot a quick look at the marching women. “Heyday's economy was built on these ridiculous zebras, and it would collapse without them, whether those ladies know it or not. And if anybody in this town has a personal interest in keeping the economy going, my friend, that somebody would be you. Maybe you'd better go give them a history lesson.”

Suddenly Roddy jerked his head to the north in a clear warning. “Uh-oh. Too late. Incoming.”

Peggy Waddell, the chairman of the Heyday Little League, had just spotted Kieran and was making her way toward him like a guided missile. Kieran glanced around, looking for somewhere to hide, but it was too late.

She was breathless when she arrived, which made her extravagant praise sound even more overblown.

“Oh, Kieran, I'm so glad you're here. I have to thank you— I can't believe it's true. You've given us the land! We needed it so desperately, and you're—you're magnificent—”

Kieran put out his hand like a cop stopping traffic. “God, Peggy. Don't make a big deal—”

But Roddy clearly loved it. “You may kiss his ring if you like, Peggy.” He turned and grinned at Claire. “They worship him around here, you know. We're going to change our name again, and this time we're going to become St. Kierantown.”

Kieran wanted to groan. He stole a glance at
Claire, too, but her politely arranged smile was not giving anything away.

“It's true,” Peggy started up again. “If it weren't for Kieran—”

“Claire! Claire!” Out of nowhere Erica Gordon came barreling toward them, three black-and-white-striped balloons flying out behind her. She flung herself at Claire, nearly knocking them both down in the process.

“Hi, Claire! I knew you'd come, even though everyone said you wouldn't.”

Claire laughed as she righted the little girl. “They did?”

“Yeah. They said well, you do know, Erica, this sort of thing actually isn't Claire Strickland's natural habitat.”

Kieran had an overpowering urge to strangle the precocious little brat. Or maybe he should strangle Evelyn Gordon, who probably was the fool who had uttered those snide phrases in the kid's presence. Roddy was scowling at Erica, too, and even Peggy Waddell looked uncomfortable.

Claire, however, seemed completely unfazed. She bent down and smiled at Erica. “Well, they were right. It isn't. But it
is
Kieran McClintock's natural habitat, and, since I'm going to marry Kieran, I wanted to come with him.”

Erica looked smug. “That's what I
told
them. But they never listen to me. They think I don't understand what a natural habitat is. As if I haven't had an entire unit on alligators and everything. They think they can talk over my head.”

“If they do, they've got another think coming,” Kieran said, reaching out to ruffle Erica's hair. “So,
kiddo, how come there's no big whomping hello for your old friend Kieran?”

Erica gave him a hug. “It's just that I see you all the time.” She turned to Claire again. “Can you come with me for a minute? I brought my new puppy, even though he's quite likely to disgrace us all. He's really cute, and I want you to meet him.”

Kieran was impressed. Claire didn't even crack a smile. “I'd love to,” she said. “Kieran, I'll meet you a little later?”

“Sure,” he said. He caught her hand one more time. The engagement ring was cold against his palm. “Don't forget to come back soon.”

After she left, time seemed to drag. Peggy Waddell wore herself out thanking him for the land, and eventually even Roddy wandered off to get ready for the announcement. Alone for once, Kieran leaned back against the edge of the long, broad stone City Hall sign, which had water cascading prettily over its letters and falling into a cool blue pool.

He scanned the crowd, hoping to catch a glimpse of Claire. But God knew where Erica had dragged her off to. Occasionally he saw Erica's three balloons bobbing along, but Claire wasn't tall enough—he couldn't see her.

He did, after a few minutes, spot Arlington Woodstock, the owner and editor of the
Heyday Herald.
Though Arlington was only a couple of years older than Kieran—and a former Ringmaster himself—the Woodstock family had owned the newspaper here for more than a century. It had begun as
The Moresville Monitor,
a weekly tabloid that was little more than a farmer's almanac.

During Arlington's father's tenure, however, the
Heyday Herald
had become one of the best small newspapers in Virginia.

Kieran was surprised to see Arlington here. The Ringmaster Ceremony might be a big deal among the Heyday good old boys, but Arlington didn't cover stories like this himself anymore. He had hired a society columnist and a feature writer to do that.

Besides, he looked pretty grim, not like a man covering a colorful piece of fluff. He caught Kieran's gaze somberly and came loping over toward him, his long limbs moving as if they were made of elastic.

“Hey,” Arlington said as he reached the fountain. He put one foot up on the stone coping and pretended to be studying his shoe. “I need to talk to you. Alone.”

“Okay. We're alone. What's up?”

“Not here.”

Kieran tilted his head. Arlington was a pretty solid guy. He didn't go in for these undercover reporter theatrics. “Why not? What's going on?”

Arlington looked up. His long, bony face was grave under his neatly combed brown hair. “I got a letter to the editor this morning. It's about you.”

Kieran narrowed his eyes. “About the wedding?”

But, to Kieran's relief, Arlington shook his head. “The wedding? No, no, I don't run crap like that. No, this is something real.”

“Come on, A. Don't talk in code. This isn't Deep Throat stuff, is it? I mean, it's not exactly exposing a national conspiracy, right?”

Arlington chewed on his lower lip. “No. Not a
national
conspiracy.”

That was an odd way to respond. Kieran's internal
Geiger counter began to make subtle noises. Something was up. But what?

“Well, what, then? Hell, A, no one can hear us. What is the damn letter about?”

Arlington glanced right, then left.

“It's about a bunch of people getting together to hide the truth about exactly how Steve Strickland really died,” he said. “And one of those people is you.”

C
LAIRE HAD NO IDEA
where the past two weeks had flown.

The time had the unreal quality of a dream. She remembered snippets…colors and phrases and feelings and scents…but she couldn't quite reconstruct the fourteen days as a cohesive whole.

Somewhere during those days she had bought a wedding dress, picked out a bouquet, chosen colors and decorations and music, champagnes and cake and hors d'oeuvres.

But it had been like playing one of Steve's video games. Moving pretend people around in a simulated environment, making choices and taking chances—all of which could be erased with the flick of a button.

Even now, as she stood in her wedding dress, looking down on the final preparations in the exquisite hidden gardens of Aurora's backyard, she felt as if a cloudy gauze had slid between her heart and reality.

Aurora, who had been helping her get ready, had just gone downstairs to check for last-minute glitches. Claire had five minutes alone to think. Which was, she discovered, about five minutes too many.

This strangely distant sadness had swamped her
the minute she found herself alone. Why? The scene below her was gorgeous. And yet, to Claire, the bustling people and the rows of white chairs and the rose-covered trellis looked no more real than so many pretty pixels in a state-of-the-art video screen.

Maybe it was just a self-defense mechanism. Maybe, subconsciously, she was afraid that if it felt too real she wouldn't be able to go through with it.

But she
would
go through with it. She touched Kieran's mother's ring as if it were a talisman, something she'd done more and more frequently as the wedding day approached. She was a mother now, too, and she was learning what Kieran's mother, and her own mother, had learned long ago.

A woman would do anything for her child.

Not that Kieran had asked for much. She knew full well she was the luckiest woman in the world. She could have found herself tied to a dreadful, resentful man who would refuse even to acknowledge his child—or one who tried to use the child to torment her.

Instead, she had Kieran, who had treated her with affection in public and courtesy in private. Kieran, who had allowed her to pick out any bedroom in his mansion, and had made it clear that, for the next few months, she would sleep in that bedroom undisturbed.

Kieran, who would be waiting for her on the other side of that rosy trellis with a bracing smile, his handsome head held high, projecting perfectly the illusion of the oh-so-happy groom.

Only she would know what he really was. A silent martyr paying the final price for his one fatal moment of weakness.

Was that it? Did everything suddenly feel so unbearably sad because she knew how much he hated the idea of this marriage?

Perhaps it was simpler still…just a hormonal flare-up at the worst possible moment.

“Claire, look! Don't you think my dress is pretty?”

Erica marched through the door slowly, as if she were already in a stately processional. Her chin was so high and stiff Claire could barely see her circlet of flowers. The little girl pinched the hem of her blue satin skirt between the thumb and forefinger of each hand, lifting it high enough to show off lacy socks and little white shoes.

“It's beautiful,” Claire said. She swept her hands the length of her own simple white satin dress and curtseyed. “Don't you think mine is, too?”

Erica stared, and then her face broke out in a gap-toothed smile. “Oh, I think it's the most beautiful dress in the world! They were right! You are—”

She stopped, clamping her upper teeth down on her lower lip so hard Claire was amazed she didn't draw blood.

“What's wrong?”

“I'm not supposed to do that,” Erica said between frozen lips. “I'm not supposed to repeat anything the grown-ups say. I am simply too young to recognize what was never intended for public consumption.”

What an adorable child! With a laugh, Claire reached out and gave her an impulsive hug. The whole wedding ceremony was going to feel warmer and easier because little Erica Gordon had agreed to be her flower girl.

“It's okay,” Claire said. “You can say whatever you want around me.”

Erica struggled another minute, and then she obviously just couldn't stop herself. “Well, okay, they said it's no wonder Kieran got snagged in your web, because it's such a damn attractive web.”

She looked at Claire doubtfully. “That's not a bad thing, right? I mean, except for the damn part. My dad always cusses at home. But otherwise, it's a good thing, right? Because he knows you're so pretty. And Kieran knows, too.”

Did he? Claire felt a small squeezing sensation around her heart. She would like him to think so.

“Yes,” she said, straightening Erica's flowers with an aching tenderness for her innocence and her unique little brand of loyalty. “Yes, it is a very nice thing. Shall we get started?”

“Okay.” Erica put her hand in Claire's, ready to walk down to the garden. At the threshold she paused, looking up at Claire with a sober expression.

“Claire.” Erica frowned. “I'm a little bit scared to be a flower girl. Are you scared to be a bride?”

And, at that moment, staring down into that serious face, Claire finally understood why she had been feeling so lost and confused.

Yes, she was scared.

In fact, she was terrified.

Because, God help her, this bride was doing the one thing she knew she should never do. She was falling in love with her bridegroom.

 

S
IX HOURS LATER
, Kieran poured himself another ginger ale and stared at the library wall, wondering if Claire had changed out of her wedding gown yet.

He put the glass to his forehead and shut his eyes. When she changed, would she come downstairs? What would they do? What would they talk about?

Next door, at Aurora's house, the reception was still in full swing. He could hear the band playing corny songs like “The Way You Look Tonight.” Occasional laughter wafted over, sometimes high and musical, like wind chimes, sometimes low and throaty, like doves. If he looked out the window, which he had no intention of doing, he could probably see couples dancing beneath the twinkling lights, stealing kisses under the sourwood tree.

If it hadn't been for Roddy, Claire and Kieran might still be there, too. After the cake, after the champagne, after the opening dance, after a million handshakes and kisses, Roddy had finally sidled up to Kieran under the pretext of handing him a drink.

“Isn't it time you and the bride ducked out, pal? Sticking around looks a little…umm…lukewarm, don't you think?”

Kieran didn't often feel like a complete idiot, but he had felt like one then.

He opened another ginger ale, his third. Where was she? Surely she wouldn't have gone to bed without even saying a word?

Oh, hell. This was impossible.

They should have taken a honeymoon.

Aurora had lobbied hard for Acapulco. Roddy had pulled for the Riviera. But anything of the kind had seemed absurd, given the circumstances of their marriage. Why fly off together into the sunset, only to book separate rooms at the most glamorous hotels? Why waste romantic moonlight and sexy, pounding surf on awkward small talk about the weather?

But now Kieran knew why. Couples didn't take honeymoons, as he'd always thought, just so that they could have two weeks of uninterrupted sex. No, a honeymoon was merely a buffer zone. A safe transition space between the ease of single life and the sudden shock of cohabitation.

He heard a sharp clink against his tumbler, and he jerked up, startled, wondering if he'd broken something. But it was only his wedding ring hitting the glass.

His wedding ring. He stared at his left hand, where the simple gold band now resided, and tried to believe he was married.

“Hi,” Claire's voice came from the doorway. “I—I'm a little tired. I thought I might go to bed. I just wanted to say good-night.”

He looked up. It was only about ten o'clock. But she was already wearing a simple blue satin nightgown. The wedding dress was gone. She had taken the diamond comb out of her hair, the one that had held her veil in place, and removed the pearls that had circled her tiny throat. She seemed to have washed the makeup from her face. But, even stripped of all the frills, she looked twice as beautiful as when she had walked down that soft green carpet toward him this afternoon.

And at that moment he had already believed she was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen.

It had been difficult, when the time came, to keep their official kiss short and ceremonial. When she'd lifted her veil and turned her face up to him, he'd felt a violent rush of desire completely unsuited to a public occasion.

He felt it again now, watching her standing there
in that blue nightgown. He forced himself to look away. The desire was just as inappropriate here tonight as it had been out there this afternoon.

But…oh, damn the ridiculous mess it had all become! Why couldn't their story have been different? Why couldn't they have been a normal couple, dating, getting to know each other over pizza and movies and glasses of wine? Why couldn't they have been out in Aurora's garden right now, dancing cleverly toward the shadows so that they could finally steal a kiss?

It might have worked. God knew there had always been sexual chemistry between them. If it hadn't been for Steve's death—

If they'd been given the time they deserved, it might have been fantastic. Eventually, they might even have found their path to that white bridal gown and green velvet carpet the conventional way.

And then this night would have been so very, very different.

“Are you all right?” He forced a smile. He couldn't let his frustration show. It might look to her like anger. “Do you have everything you need?”

“Yes. Everything is lovely. Your housekeeper put all my things away, and she left a pitcher of water, and books. Even flowers.”

“Good,” he said.

This was a nightmare. Every male instinct—inherited from every McClintock in the family tree, beginning with centuries of warrior Celtic ancestors and flowing all the way down to his own scoundrel father, said,
She's your wife. Go to her.

But every bit of common sense he possessed was like a metal link, creating a chain of self-imposed
chivalry, straining to hold him back. He had taken advantage of her vulnerability once. He could not sink low enough to do it a second time.

Or could he? The devil in him began to whisper again. Look at her! Didn't she seem slightly lost, as if this big house might swallow her up? She didn't even know where all the rooms were, for God's sake. He ought to go to her. He ought to put his arms around her and hold her close, and tell her it was going to be all right.

It didn't have to lead to anything. It didn't have to lead to that big, empty four-poster bed in his room, only two doors down from hers.

But it would. He knew it would, just as well as he knew that the sun would rise tomorrow. Just as well as he knew that the ghost of Steve would always fall between them, no matter how close they tried to get.

“Claire—”

“Kieran. I also wanted to say— I also came down here to thank you.”

He set his ginger ale down with a stiff arm. He didn't let go of it, though. He clung to it. It anchored him in this spot.

“Thank me for what?”

“For today.”

She took a deep breath. He saw the soft blue fabric lift as her breasts rose. Her breasts were beautiful. He knew—yes, he
knew,
damn it—that her breasts were smoother than any silk or satin. They were velvet warm and full of longing, swelling under his hands. And beneath them her heart could beat like butterfly wings.

He forced his fingers into a fist to dull the ache of remembering. Oh, yes. He had known it all once.

But only once.

She cleared her throat softly. “Kieran, I know today wasn't easy for you. For either of us. I know it wasn't what you had planned for your life.”

He gripped the glass again. “Was it what you had planned for yours?”

“Of course not. I would have given anything not to end up here. I had always vowed never to be like my mother. She—”

“Then we're even,” he said, more harshly than he had meant to. But her words had stung, if only because he had been indulging in those stupid “what if” dreams. “Because I had sworn never to end up like my father.”

“I know,” she said. “That's why I wanted to thank you—”

“Stop thanking me, Claire. I'm not doing this for you, any more than you're doing it for me. As we've said a thousand times, we're both doing it for the baby.”

She looked very pale. Pulling her robe tightly together at her throat, she nodded.

“I guess we can only hope, then,” she said, “that someday the baby will thank us both.”

 

I
T RAINED EVERY DAY
for a week, and Claire thought she might go stir crazy. One of Kieran's big land deals was about to close, so he was out of the house from early morning until well after dark.

Aurora provided no distractions. She had caught a cold and was under doctor's orders to sleep most of the day.

Claire occupied herself as best she could. She acquainted herself with Kieran's house and tried to
make friends with Ilsa, the beautiful housekeeper, who unfortunately spoke primarily Swedish. Claire wished Kieran would give the woman an extended vacation. If Ilsa did everything that needed to be done around the house, how was Claire going to make herself useful?

She worked on her lesson plans for the fall term, but, after the
Hamlet
fiasco, Mrs. Straine had laid down so many laws about curriculum that there wasn't much room for creativity. In two days, Claire had the entire term outlined and ready to go.

Friday started off better, with a dry morning and sunshine squinting weakly through the dirty clouds. But by afternoon the sky was black again, and soon the rain was coming down in torrents.