A Season for Love (21 page)

Drake spent the following morning closeted with Pieter. Ronnie learned from Henri when she awoke that the two men had already been together for hours and that Pieter had left instructions that under no circumstances was he to be disturbed. He had requested, however, that she not leave the house.

"Thank you, Henri," Ronnie told the butler, turning her back to pour a cup of coffee from the buffet. She didn't want him seeing the ill-concealed unease the situation was causing her. Had Pieter summoned Drake, or had Drake insisted on an audience with his host? Whichever, she didn't like the idea of the two alone together for hours. No matter how she attempted to assuage her worry with self-assurances that Drake, knowing the truth of Pieter's condition, would say nothing to aggravate him, she simply couldn't control her nervousness. Drake had very strong beliefs as to right or wrong, and in his eyes she was wrong. They were both wrong. If Pieter was to press Drake, he might find it impossible to lie.

Morning became noon, and still neither man emerged from Pieter's suite. Ronnie gave up all efforts of pretending constructive industry in the house, and trailed upstairs to her room, halfheartedly agreeing to a tray when Gretel insisted she have some form of lunch.

Pieter and Drake were dining in Pieter's room.

After picking at her lunch, Ronnie settled herself in the fur comfort of her bed and forced herself to read a recently ordered novel. It was by an author she loved, and Ronnie usually found his books absorbing and engrossing, That day she went through the first chapter before realizing that the words had not congealed in her mind at all and that she had no idea of what she had read. Guiltily she set the book aside. It was too fine a novel to be fluffed through.

At least, she thought idly, she had killed more time. The digital clock on her dresser informed her it was past two. Surely the men would break soon, and she would know what was going on before she started climbing the manor walls or sitting on the bed like a child and screaming hysterically with frustration.

Restlessly prowling her room, she recalled for the zillionth time Drake's contrasting behavior each time they were together. He could be charming, occasionally kind. He could also be mocking and ruthless—all within seconds. He called her witch while claiming to love her.

But it was a love she couldn't—wouldn't—dare trust. She could stir his passions—savage, fundamental passions—but it was as if he despised her and scorned her even as he reached for her. . . .

Her hair received the brunt of her own ravaged pride and emotions. Thinking of Drake, she brushed the lustrous sable mass with a ferocity that was certainly beneficial to her scalp, if somewhat haphazardly. As her arm tired she chided herself— she had to settle down.

The secret meeting going on was a good one. Drake was going to convince Pieter to see the specialist he knew. Pieter would have hope. She should be ecstatic. But they had to be talking about more than a specialist. It had been hours . . . and hours. . . .

She stood perfectly still as she heard a knock at her door, wondering at first if wishful thinking had conjured the sound. But a tap came again, followed by Henri's tentative "Mrs. von Hurst?"

"Yes?" Ronnie flew to the door and flung it open expectantly, her hair falling about her face in thick, fluffy waves.

Henri stared at her blankly for several seconds and Ronnie, having no idea in the turmoil of her mind that he was seeing her as he never had before, her face flushed, her hair wild, her manner reckless and impatiently vibrant, repeated herself anxiously. "Yes, Henri. What is it?"

Henri snapped his jaw back together, returned to the present, but still thought of his mistress with a new dawn of comprehension. She was young, beautiful, and spirited. Funny how the years of steadfast poise had always blinded him. Her rigid composure had made him think her far older, far more prepared to take on the desolation of the island and its inhabitants.

"Mr. von Hurst, madam," Henri said quickly, shuttering his thoughts with the rapid blinking of his eyes. "He requests you in his suite at your earliest convenience."

Ronnie laughed aloud, further startling Henri. Earliest convenience! Nice words for a command. Well, for once she and Pieter were attuned. Her earliest convenience was now! Even facing Drake after yesterday's stunning show of strange possession was preferable to enduring one more second of this awful, nerve- racking curiosity.

She didn't pause for an instant to check her appearance or bind her hair. With a brief nod of thanks, she swept past Henri, mindless that her gait was less than truly dignified as she sped down the corridor to Pieter's door and rapped on it briskly. She could hear the murmur of words from within, but a hush echoed to her after her first rap.

"Entre
!" Pieter called, his use of the French word sounding almost studiously nonchalant.

Ronnie forced herself into a semblance of calm as she twisted the brass knob and pushed on the wood. The scene she came upon looked as if it had been purposely set. Pieter and Drake both sat in fan-backed chairs by the beveled window, comfortably leaning into the chairs, their legs crossed negligently.

They might have been discussing the weather, except that Ronnie knew better. There was tension in the fingers that rested on Drake's knee, an evasiveness in Pieter's light eyes. Yet oddly, Pieter seemed to be the happier of the two—almost complacent.

Drake was rigid . . . radiating that dangerous energy even as he sat. Ronnie covertly lowered her lashes to form crescents on her cheeks and watched Drake from beneath them. She caught a glimpse of his dark eyes and felt her breath depart her body. Unwitting chills assailed her.

He was furious. And, she realized as his arrogantly accusing stare came to rest upon her with explosive menace, it was not Pieter with whom he was furious. His wrath was directed at her.

Why? she wondered desperately. He had been angry yesterday, but surely not to this extent! Nor was there a hint of the yearning desire he had displayed yesterday despite his roughness ... or the underlying core of a heated passion that burned with or because of the anger. . . . No. His wrath was brutally cold. It seemed to touch her like the tangible chill of an arctic wind. What could she possibly have done?

"Ronnie! My dear, you do remember Mr. Simmons, my attorney from Charleston?"

With one of his natural but dramatic hand gestures, Pieter motioned across the room, and Ronnie suddenly became aware that there was a third party in the immediate vicinity. She turned to the new guest, quickly hiding her surprise.

"Mr. Simmons, yes," she murmured graciously, extending her arm with a feigned pleasure. "How nice to see you."

Mr. Simmons was a dignified white-haired old charmer of legendary southern gentility. He accepted her hand with a slight squeeze and a small bow. "Dear Mrs.—von Hurst!" he replied in a low, modulated tone, "I assure you the pleasure is entirely mine." Ronnie noticed that he stuttered over her name.

Drake chose that moment to cough discreetly. Ronnie couldn't see him as she faced Mr. Simmons, but she could feel his scorn searing through her. She would have loved to politely excuse herself to Mr. Simmons and turn around and just as politely dump a bucket of ice water over Drake's head, or slap his mocking face, or, better still, drop him in a kettle of boiling oil

"Mr. Simmons has some papers for you to sign, Veronica," 
Pieter said, indicating his varnished rolltop desk. "Would you take care of it right away, please?"

"Yes, of course," Ronnie murmured automatically, pivoting to the large desk, her own bewilderment and curiosity quickly being replaced by a seething fury. Simmons must be there so that she and Pieter could legally fill out a marriage license. And Pieter, damn him, was nonchalantly carrying off this piece of very private business with Drake in the room. Had he let Drake in on their "family secret," or was his behavior so smooth that Drake would think it to be any document requiring both signatures?

Tears of humiliation were blurring her eyes, and she picked up the document to enable herself to read it, but her eyes refused to focus. A heavy band seemed to be constricting around her stomach, a band of inescapable steel that stopped her heart and closed in around her lungs. After signing this document, she would become Pieter's wife in truth. She had always claimed to herself and Pieter that the illegality of their original marriage had meant nothing.

But it had.

It had made it possible for her to spend that magical time with Drake—possible to grasp at interludes of happiness, and to dream and love.

There would be nothing faulty about the marriage this time. It would be legally registered in the State of South Carolina.

Pieter and Drake both rose simultaneously and came to her with swift strides—an amazing accomplishment for Pieter. Startled from her reflections, Ronnie dropped the document on the desk, her eyes widening with confused alarm as the two men seemed to swoop down on her like vultures. She emitted a little gasp as they neared her, and almost imperceptively they slowed, and Pieter smiled. A quick glanced passed between him and Drake, and Drake changed course, walking across the room to Mr. Simmons—nowhere near her.

Had she imagined that he was coming for her? Ronnie wondered fleetingly. His change of direction had been so smooth. . . .

"Don't bother reading the thing, Veronica," Pieter instructed, securing a pen from the desk and slipping it in to her fingers. "I have more business to take care of, so I'll need you simply to hurry. And don't forget to use your, ah, proper name."

Proper name—maiden name. Uneasily Ronnie leaned over and signed Veronica Jane Flynn. Pieter immediately slid the paper from her and retrieved his pen, sighing. "That's that," he said with satisfaction.

Did the room reek of tension, or was she falling prey to the desolate life on the island and becoming paranoid? Pieter smiled at her benignly, Mr. Simmons casually glanced out the window, and Drake stood near him, quietly questioning him about growth along the Battery. Picture perfect. She
must
be growing paranoid. Drake had not been coming for her, he had just happened to rise along with Pieter.

With the document in his hand, Pieter suddenly seemed to wilt before her. The normal pallor of his face took on a gray tinge, and for a moment Ronnie feared he would crumple to the floor. Ronnie forgot all the peculiar behavior surrounding her; she even forgot that Pieter usually shrugged off her touch sharply. She gripped his arm with naked concern, supporting him.

"Thank you, my dear," he murmured. "I think I do need a little help over to my chair."

He had spoken softly, but Drake was at his side in a minute, nodding to Ronnie over his head with unspoken instructions in his eyes. Together they led Pieter back to his chair by the window.

"Thank you," Pieter murmured again.

Once more Drake's eyes met Ronnie's. The mutual agreement they had shared so swiftly in regard to Pieter was gone. The hostility was back. Burning, scorching hostility. The look was deadly, but she couldn't seem to tear her eyes away from the flame. Thankfully Mr. Simmons broke them apart.

"I think that's all that I need," the older man said cheerfully, taking the paper from Pieter and placing it in his neat nondescript briefcase. "Mr. von Hurst"—he shook Pieter's hand— "I'll return in three days. Mrs. von Hurst, if you'll escort me out . . ."

"Certainly," Ronnie replied, "Pieter?”

"You'll come right back here, please," he commanded.

"Excuse me," Drake interrupted. "Perhaps I should see Mr. Simmons out. I'm sure that whatever you have to say to your wife must be personal, and I can leave you two alone now—"

"No!" Pieter protested firmly. "I want you here, Drake."

Ronnie was surprised by Pieter's vehemence, and stunned by his words. She felt an uncomfortable coldness implacably settling in her limbs. Pieter hadn't wanted her to read the paper. What in hell had she just signed?

"Pieter." Drake set his jaw with the protest. "I don't think—"