Yanecia - Nora Roberts- Garden Trilogy - Red lily Страница 33

“I’ll be a good wife to him.”

“You damn well better be. Are we going to sit down and have a cry now?”

“Oh yeah. Yeah, that’d be good.”

WHEN SHE LAY beside him in the dark, she listened to the steady, drumming rain.

“I don’t know how I can be so happy and so scared at the same time.”

“I’m right there with you.”

“This morning, it felt like everything crashed down on my head, like a whole bookcase, and every book smacked me with the hard edge. Now it turns out it was flowers falling, and I’m covered in all these soft petals and perfume.”

He took her hand, the left, the one where her thumb kept rubbing along her third finger. The ring was in its box on the dresser. “I’ll get it to the jeweler tomorrow.”

“I don’t know how I’m going to feel about being married to somebody who reads my mind.” Then she rolled over onto him, tossed back her hair. “I think I can read yours, too. And it goes something like this.”

She lowered her lips to his.

Soft and smooth, that’s how she felt with him. Lovely and loose. And most of all, loved. Whatever tried to darken her heart, whatever brewed in the night, she could, she would, hold off and have this time with him.

Safe, secure. Seduced.

She could trust him to hold her, as he did now, with their bodies warm, their lips tender. She could trust herself to be strong with the taste of him teasing her tongue.

They moved together, slow and easy, while the rain drummed musically on the stones of the terrace. Her heart drummed, too. Pleasure and anticipation. She knew him so well. Friend and partner, now lover. Husband.

Overcome, she laid her cheek on his. “I love you, Harper. It seems like I’ve already loved you forever.”

“We’ve still got forever.”

He brushed his fingers over her face, her cheeks, her temples, into her hair. He could see her in the gloomy dark, the shape of her, the gleam of her eyes. Witchy and mysterious in this storm light, but nonetheless his. He could look at her and see the long roll of the future. Touch her, and know the simple beauty of the now.

He sampled her lips, skin, the long line of her throat, the subtle curve of her breast. Her heart beat under it, steady as the rain. And quickened as his mouth possessed.

Slowly, guided by her sighs, he took his hands and lips over her. The narrow torso, so white, so delicate in the dim light, and the jump of muscles as he passed, the quivers, told him she was roused.

He laid his lips, gently, so gently, on her belly, and laid his cheek there just a moment, in wonder of what grew in her. Her hand brushed over his hair, stroked.

“Its middle name has to be Harper,” she murmured. “Boy or girl, whatever we choose for the first name, it’s important we pass the Harper name on.”

He turned his head to press another kiss over their child. “How about Cletis? Cletis Harper Ashby.”

He fought to keep his lips from curving against her skin when her hand stilled. “That’s a joke, right?”

“Little Cletis, or Hermione, if it’s a girl. You just don’t see enough Hermiones these days.”

He kissed his way back up until his lips hovered over hers.

“You’d be sorry if I fell in love with those names and insisted on them. Wouldn’t be so funny then, would it?”

“Maybe Clemm.” He dropped little kisses at the corners of her mouth. “Or Gertrude.”

Her fingers drilled into his ribs. “Looks like I’m going to have to be sure I’m the one filling out the birth certificate. Especially since I’m thinking we’ll stick with flower names. Begonia’s my personal favorite.”

“But what if it’s a girl?”

She grabbed both of his ears and pulled, then gave up on a laugh.

And was laughing when he slipped inside her.

SHE WAS SO warm, so content, snuggled up beside him, drifting off to sleep. The patter of rain was music, a lullabye to float away to dreams on.

She imagined herself walking toward him, her long white dress shimmering in the sunlight, lilies, bold and red lying in the crook of her arm, like a child. He would wait for her, wait to take her hand, to make promises. Take the vows that meant forever.

Till death do you part.

No. She shifted with the quiver under her heart. She wanted no mention of death on the day they married. No promises tied to it.

Death brought shadows, and shadows blocked the sun.

Empty promises. Words spoken by rote and never meant to be kept. Clouds over the sun, and the rain turning her white gown to dull, dingy gray.

It was cold, bleak. But there was such heat in her. Hate was a furnace, rage the fire that stoked it.

How strange, how extraordinary that she should feel so alive, so viciously alive at last.

The house was dark. A tomb. They were all dead inside. Only her child lived, and would always, ever. Endless. She and her son would live forever, be together until the end of days while the rest rotted.

This was her vengeance. Her only task now.

She had given life. She had grown it inside her own body, had pushed it into the world with a pain akin to madness. It would not be stolen from her. It was hers to keep.

She would bide in that house with her son. And she would be the true mistress of Harper House.

After this night, she and James would never be parted again.

The rain drenched her as she walked, humming her tune as the hem of her soaked nightdress waded through mud.

They would play in the gardens in the bright spring. How he would laugh. Flowers blooming, birds singing, only for them. Tea and cakes, yes, tea and cakes for her precious boy.

Soon, very soon now, an endless spring for them.

She walked through the rain, wading through the crawl of fog. Now and then she thought she heard some sound—voices, laughter, weeping, shouting.

Now and then, she thought she saw some movement out of the corner of her eye. Children playing, an old woman sleeping in a chair, a young man planting flowers.

But they were not of her world, not of the world she sought.

In her world, they would be the shadows.

She walked the paths, or trod over the winter beds, her feet bare and filthy. Her eyes mad moonbeams.

She saw the silhouette of the stables. What she needed would be there, but so would others. Servants, rutting stablehands, dirty grooms.

Instead, she tapped a finger on her lips, as if for silence, but a rolling laugh escaped. Maybe she should burn the stables, set a fire that would rise up in the sky. Oh, how the horses would scream and the men run.

A toasty blaze on an ice-cold night.

She felt that she could light fires with a thought. And thinking, whirled to face Harper House. She could burn it to ash with her mind. Every room bursting with heat. And he, the great Reginald Harper, and all who had betrayed her would perish in the hell she created.

But not the child. No, no, not the child. She pressed both hands to her mouth, banished the thought before the spark flew. It was not the way for her son.

He must come with her. Be with her.

She walked toward the carriage house. Her hair, tangled around her face, dripped into her eyes, but she walked unhurried.

No locks here, she thought at the wide doors. Who would dare trespass on Harper land?

She would.

The door creaked as she pulled it open. Even in the gloom, she could see the shine of the carriages. No dull wheels for the great master. Big, glossy carriages to carry him and his whore-wife, his mewling daughters, wherever they chose to go.

While the mother of his son, the creator of life, drove in a stolen wagon.

Oh, he would pay.

She stood in the open doorway, swaying as her mind rolled in circles, buzzing rings of rage and confusion and terrible love. She forgot where she was, what she was, why. Then the purpose looped around once more.

Could she risk a light? Dare she? She must, she must. She couldn’t see in the dark.

Not yet.

Though her fingers shook with cold as she lighted a lamp, she didn’t feel it. The heat still burned through her, and made her smile as she saw the hank of rope.

There now, that would do, that would do nicely.

She left the lamp burning, the door open as she walked back out into the rain.

WHEN HARPER TURNED, reached for her, she wasn’t there. He half woke, stretching his arm out farther, expecting to meet her skin.

“Hayley?”

He murmured her name, pushed onto his elbow. His first thought was that she’d gone in to Lily, but he heard nothing from the bedside monitor.

It took him a few seconds longer to realize what he did hear.

The rain was too loud. Pushing up quickly he saw the terrace doors were open. He rolled out, grabbing his jeans.

“Hayley!” He dragged on his jeans, bolted for the door. He saw nothing but the rain and the dark.

Rain pelted him, his heart constricted to an ice chip in his chest. On a panicked oath, he rushed back inside, and into Lily’s room.

The baby slept, peacefully. Her mother wasn’t there.

He strode back to the bedroom, grabbed the monitor, and, shoving it in his back pocket, went out to find her.

Calling for her, he bolted down the steps. The carriage house, he thought. He’d always believed Amelia had gone there. The night he’d seen her in the garden when he’d been a child, he’d been sure that’s where she’d been going.

Her gown had been wet and muddy, he remembered as he ran. As if she’d been in the rain.

He knew his way, even in the dark. There was no turn of the path that wasn’t familiar to him. He saw his front door hanging open, felt a trip of relief.

“Hayley!” He slapped on the light as he rushed in.

The floor was wet, and muddy footprints crossed the room, into the kitchen. He knew the house was empty even before he called for her again, before he ran through it, heart thundering, looking for her.

This time he grabbed the phone, speed-dialing as he ran back out.

“Mama, Hayley’s gone. She went outside. I can’t find her. She’s—oh Jesus, I see her. Third floor. She’s on the third floor terrace.”

He tossed the phone aside and kept running.

She didn’t turn when he shouted her name, but continued to cross the terrace like a wraith. His feet skidded on wet stone, and flowers were crushed as he leaped off the path into beds to cut to the stairs leading up.

Lungs burning, heart screaming, he bounded up.

He reached the third level as she flung open a door.

She hesitated when he called out to her, and slowly turned her head to face him. And smiled. “Death for life.”

“No.”

He made the last leap, grabbed her arm and jerked her inside out of the rain. “No,” he said again, and wrapped his arms around her. “Feel me. You know who I am. You know who you are. Feel me.”

He tightened his grip when she struggled. Held her close and warm even as her head whipped from side to side and her teeth snapped like a wild dog’s.

“I will have my son!”

“You have a daughter. You have Lily. Lily’s sleeping. Hayley, stay with us.”

And swept her up in his arms when her body sagged.

“I’m cold. Harper, I’m cold.”

“It’s all right. You’re all right.” He carried her across the wide ballroom with its ghostly dust sheets as rain lashed windows.

Before he reached the door, Mitch shoved it open. After one quick glance, Mitch let out a breath. “Your mother went to check on Lily. What happened?”

“Not now.” With Hayley shivering in his arms, Harper moved by Mitch. “We’ll deal with it later. She needs to get warm and dry. The rest will have to wait.”nineteen

HE HAD HER bundled in a blanket from neck to toe, and sat behind her on the bed drying her hair with a towel.

“I don’t remember getting up. I don’t remember going out.”

“Are you warm enough?”

“Yeah.” Except for the sheen of ice inside her bones. She wondered if any heat would ever reach that deep in her again. “I don’t know how long I was out there.”

“You’re back now.”

She reached back, laid a hand over his. He needed warmth and comfort as much as she did. “You found me.”

He pressed a kiss to her damp hair. “I always will.”

“You took Lily’s monitor.” And that, she thought, meant even more. “You remembered to take it. You didn’t leave her alone.”

“Hayley.” He wrapped his arms around her, pressed his cheek to hers. “I won’t leave either of you alone.” Then laid a hand on her belly. “Any of you. I swear it.”

“I know. She doesn’t believe in promises, or faith, or love. I do. I believe in us, with everything I’ve got.” She turned her head so her lips could brush his. “I didn’t always, but I do now. I have everything. She has nothing.”

“You can feel sorry for her? After this? After everything?”

“I don’t know what I feel for her. Or about her.” It felt so wonderful to be able to lean her head back, rest it on his good, strong shoulder. “I thought I understood her, at least a little. We were both in a kind of similar situation. I mean, getting pregnant, and not wanting the baby at first.”

“You’re nothing alike.”

“Harper, erase the personalities, and your feelings for just a minute. Look at it objectively, like you do at work. Look at the situation. We were both unmarried and pregnant. Not loving the father, not wanting to see our lives changed, burdened even. Then coming to want the baby. In different ways, for different reasons, but coming to want the baby so much.”

“Different ways and different reasons,” he repeated. “But all right, I can see that, on the surface, there’s a pattern.”

The door opened. Roz came in with a tray. “I’m not going to disturb you. Harper, you see that she drinks this.” After setting the tray at the foot of the bed, Roz skirted around to the side. She took Hayley’s face in her hand, kissed her cheek. “You get some rest.”

Harper reached out, took Roz’s hand for a moment. “Thanks, Mama.”

“You need anything, you call.”

“She didn’t have anyone to take care of her,” Hayley said quietly when the door closed behind Roz. “No one to care about her.”

“Who did she care about? Who did she care for? Obsession isn’t caring,” he added before Hayley could speak. He eased away to get up, pour the tea. “What was done to her sucked big-time. No argument, no debate. But you know what? There aren’t any heroes in her sad story.”

“There should be. There should always be heroes. But no.” She took the tea. “She wasn’t heroic. Not even tragic, like Juliet. She’s just sad. And bitter.”

“Calculating,” he added. “And crazy.”

“That, too. She wouldn’t have understood you. I think I know her well enough now to be sure of that. She wouldn’t have understood your heart, or your honesty. That’s sad, too.”

He walked to the doors. He was getting the soaker he’d wished for and could stand there, watch the earth drink in the rain.

“She was always sad.” He reached inside, beyond his anger and found the pity. “I could see it even when I was a kid, and she’d be in my room, singing. Sad and lost. Still I felt safe with her, the way you do when you’re with someone you know cares about you. She cared, on some level, for me, for my brothers. I guess that has to count for something.”