Wild Heart (38 page)

The clerk said, "Excuse me," into the telephone and blinked at him, uncertain.

He straightened his shoulders and slicked back his hair, trying to look the opposite of a wild man. "I'm trying to find Mrs. Darrow," he said as calmly as he could. "I'm a guest in the hotel."

"Yes, sir." The clerk finally nodded, and Michael attributed his decision to trust him to his father's fine clothes. "She just passed through. I believe she went into the palm court."

"The what?"

"Through there, sir." He pointed to an arched doorway between two white marble pillars. Michael remembered to say thank you before he hurried toward the door.

The palm court had glass sides, a glass dome for a roof. The hot, heavy air smelled like the earth after a rain. Everything was green, like pictures of the jungle. Three brick paths fanned out from the entrance. He took one and followed it around trees and shrubs and a stone fountain until it twisted back to where it started. He tried the second one, and at the end of it he saw Sydney. She had her back to him; she was reading a sign, a little metal plaque on the ground in front of a tree. She didn't hear him until he came close enough to touch her. Then she turned. He was glad to see she wasn't crying.

As soon as she saw him, her face crumpled and she burst into tears.

He put his arms around her. "Don't." Her silky dress under his hands, her flower-smelling hair. The feel of her. "Don't cry. Oh, I missed you. You feel . . ." He squeezed her closer, surrounded her with his arms, wanting to take her inside himself. Her wet face looked so beautiful. "Shh," he whispered, putting his mouth on the tears, smearing her lips with them, and she stopped crying long enough to kiss him back. Oh God, the sweet, salty taste of her. She had desperate hands, holding his face, pulling in his hair. They pressed together closer, harder, until it was not enough and too much, they had to let go of each other to breathe.

He didn't know for sure, so he had to ask why she was so unhappy. "Is it because I'm going away?"

"Are you?" She wiped her eyes with her hands. "You are, of course you are. I want you to, you have to. Oh, Michael."

It started again, and this time he couldn't stop. Could they make love here? Behind this tree,
Hevea brasiliensis,
right on the damp ground. Or standing against it, "rubber tree," pressed together like animals mating, two turning into one.

A voice—"Look, isn't that pretty?" They jumped apart just before two people, a man and a woman, strolled around the corner and saw them. Michael made a shield of his body between them and Sydney, hiding her. The couple stopped. Looked. Turned around and walked the other way.

"Oh God, Michael, this is hopeless."

"No, it isn't." He was afraid she would leave, so he made her sit down on a bench at the side of the brick path. He gave her his big white handkerchief, thinking how much more women cried than men. She blew her nose and dried her face, taking a long time to pull herself together. He didn't care; he would have waited all night, he was so glad to finally be with her. "This is the first time we've been alone, Sydney, in so long."

She balled the handkerchief in her lap and took a long, deep breath. "I don't call this alone."

He had to touch her. He took her hand and kissed it and laid it against his cheek. She tried to smile, and he kissed her on the lips. "You look beautiful. You smell wonderful. The worst part of being in jail was not seeing you. Sydney, I'm never breaking the law again."

She laughed, a wet gurgling sound in the back of her throat. "I missed you so much. I knew they would let you go. Wasn't Mr. Osgood wonderful? When your parents came—oh, Michael, that splendid moment!—Mr. Merck almost slid right under the table. That's when I knew they'd let you go."

"I didn't know. I was afraid. I thought, if they make me go to jail, it'll be even worse now, because I have a family."

"I love your family." Her cheeks turned pink; she looked away. "I'm sorry."

"Why?"

"I should be happy for you. I
am
happy for you. I am, but. . ."

"What?"

"I hate it that I have to let you go."

He frowned. When he put his arm around her, she twisted into him and pressed her face against his neck. "Why do you have to let me go?"

"Because you don't need me anymore. A different life is starting for you."

"Yes, a different life is starting." He couldn't see it, though; when he tried, it was like looking through fog. Today his father had spoken to him of his estate, his responsibilities; he had used words like
stewardship
and
birthright
and
prerogative.
"You'll be a gentleman," he had said, but Michael didn't know what that meant.

"I have to go to Scotland, Sydney." She nodded. He heard her swallow and knew she was trying not to cry anymore. "You come with me." She shook her head, and he said, "Yes. You come with me."

"I can't. You need to be with your family now."

"Yes, but I need to be with you, too. I always will. I love you, Sydney."

"I'll wait for you. It doesn't matter how long. Someday . . . But right now your real life is starting, Michael, your true life. You're Michael MacNeil, the Younger of Auldearn. I'm selfish, but not enough to keep you from that life."

He pulled away so he could see her face. "Do you love me?"

She closed her eyes. "Yes. I love you."

"Then why won't you come with me?"

"Because I don't belong with you now. Everything's changed."

"Everything's changed, yes, but not us. Aren't we the same? I'm just more in love than before—that's all that's changed in me."

She put her hand on her throat. "It's not that easy."

"Why not?" She shook her head. "I'm not stupid, Sydney. Explain it to me."

"Of course you're not stupid—but—it's complicated. You have no idea how society works, and families, and— obligations. For God's sake, Michael, you're a
baron."

"That's just a word."

"Listen to me. You know what my aunt is like, how much she cares about what people think. Appearances, rules, laws of conduct, how society has to be
regulated,
how—"

"Yes, yes," he cut in, impatient. He was getting angry, but not with her.

"Your father and my aunt—they don't have much in common," she said with a short, unhappy laugh, "but they agree on that."

"How do you know?"

"I know. He's an
earl.
You don't know what that means yet, but I do. Believe me: your father doesn't want me to go with you to Scotland."

"How do you know?"

"
I
know."

Was she right? She was so sure, and he didn't know anything.

They stopped talking. The silence grew, and he began to hate this hot, humid place. "We should go back," Sydney said, but neither of them moved. Water trickled from the invisible fountain; the sound was monotonous and maddening. What if she was right about his father? What if he had to choose between them?

But he had already chosen. "You won't come with me?" he asked her for the last time.

"Michael, I can't."

"Then I won't go." He stood up. "Come on, let's go tell them." He took her hands and pulled her to her feet.

"Wait—" He started to pull her along, even though she hung back. "Wait, Michael.
Wait."
He stopped. "What are you saying? You
have
to go."

"I don't."

"Yes, you do, you know you do."

"I'm not going without you."

"Michael, listen, this isn't the answer."

"What is the answer?"

"I don't know! I don't think there is one."

Not caring who saw them, he took her in his arms again. It didn't get them anywhere, but he felt better when they were touching. How could he be so sad now when he had been so happy an hour ago? Why did life have to be so complicated?

She leaned against him, pressing her cheek to his. "They'll be worried about us. We have to go." Stepping back, she brushed at his shoulder, and he pulled a strand of her hair out of her eyes. "Am I a mess?" He said no, but she looked doubtful and walked over to the glass wall to see her reflection. "Oh, dear God," she wailed softly, and started fixing her hair, her eyes, patting at her dress.

Nothing was decided, but she was right, they couldn't stay away any longer. They walked through the lobby, squinting in the sudden brightness, and went up the marble staircase to the mezzanine. At the end of the hall, the doors to the private dining room were closed, but he could hear the rattle of plates and glasses inside. Sydney gave him a shaky smile, for courage. He pushed open the door.

Except for a maid loading plates onto a tray, the room was empty.

"Uh oh," said Sydney.

"Maybe they went upstairs."

"Or out. What if they're looking for us outside?"

"Let's go upstairs and see."

They took the elevator to the fifth floor, both of them silent and grim, hiding their clasped hands behind her skirt. Michael had time to think, as the little car rose higher and higher, that he liked hotels. He liked them a lot, almost everything about them, and he wished the day would come soon when he and Sydney could stay in one together without hiding or being miserable.

At the door to the MacNeils' suite they drew themselves up again. "They're here," he whispered; he could hear voices behind the door. He almost knocked, but decided to try the knob first. It wasn't locked. They opened the door and went inside.

Nobody noticed them. Kate and Philip were leaning against the railing of the tiny balcony that overlooked the lake, talking, unaware of anything but each other. Across the room, the others were standing around the big table, peering down at something. A map?

"Now here, not half a league from Invergordon," his father was explaining while Sydney's father bent close to follow his pointing finger, "there's a large stone with an inscription in Ogam—which, as you know, makes no sense in any known Indo-European language."

"Quite," said Dr. Winter, sawing his pince-nez back and forth across his nose so he could see better. "Fascinating."

"Of course, even though there's evidence of descent in the female line, especially in the case of the Pictish royal family, we still don't know whether they were Aryans or non-Aryans."

"Yes, quite. We theorize that the Gaelic and Brythonic languages they spoke by the first century a.d. were imposed by Celtic-speaking invaders in some remote time, but we can't prove it. And you have a stone right there, do you? Remarkable. I should enjoy seeing that very much."

"Here is our little village, Miss Winter," Michael's mother said, pointing at something else on the map. "You will enjoy meeting the ladies in our horticulture club, I daresay. Of course, they'll try to impose on you—because I shall put them up to it—to give us the benefit of your expertise on the subject of roses at our fortnightly meeting."

"Oh," the aunt simpered, blushing, "how kind. Really, I should be delighted. Most honored."

"There's a fellow in Glasgow you'll want to meet, Winter. I knew him at school and we've kept up. Anthropology fellow, wrote a book about biology and ethics. Cutting edge sort of thing, very—"

"You don't mean McDuff, do you?"

"McDuff, that's the man."

"Good God. We've corresponded for years. I wrote a piece about his book in the
Times."

"Well!" The two men clapped each other on the shoulders, beaming. "You'll be glad to meet him, then, won't you?"

"I should say!"

Sam, bored with the talk and finally bored with the map, swung around from the table. "Sydney! Michael!" He ran to them and grabbed his sister's hand. "Guess what? We're going to Scotland!"

"What?"

"Scotland! Dad's going to be a guest lectern at some university, and Aunt Estelle's going to talk about roses to a bunch of ladies." He took Michael's hand, too, and shook it. "The best part is,
your
dad says you can get married right on the boat if you don't want a wrong engagement!"

"Samuel!"

He glanced back at his aunt, worried. "Ma'am?" Philip was laughing; Dr. Winter kept clearing his throat.

Michael's mother came toward them, smiling radiantly. She kissed his cheek, then took Sydney's hands in both of hers. "Michael didn't tell us—we didn't know, and now I feel silly. Of course he would love you. My dear, I'm so very happy."

They kissed—and then Michael's father kissed Sydney and hugged Michael, and Dr. Winter kissed both of them, and Aunt Estelle kissed everybody.

"Did you ask her?" Sam demanded when the hugging and kissing were over. "What did you say? What did she say?"

Michael just grinned at him, confused.

"Samuel, for the lord's sake—"

"You have to ask her if she'll marry you! It's called
proposing.
I thought you knew that."