of a man, but Nic hadn't come back later either, after he'd found his place in the world. No child should be abandoned by its parent, even if that parenthood was a lie. But, whatever his failings, Nic had not killed Cris's mother. Moreover, she knew he was far from heartless toward his father's child. He might think he was, might have acted as if he were, but no man suffered the kind of guilt she saw Nic suffering unless he very much regretted what he had done.
He's afraid, she thought. Afraid he can't be a father. Afraid he'll fail Cristopher the same way he failed Bess.
None of this excused his behavior but maybe, just maybe, it meant the wrongs could be redressed.
Of course, Merry had a reason or two to want to believe that. If Nic discovered he could love Cristopher, that he could fulfill a responsibility and didn't have to run from it, then maybe he'd discover a wife was
no harder to keep beside him than a son.
"You hate me," he said, sounding as if he half wished she did. "You think I'm despicable."
She looked at him, her emotions strangely still, or maybe not still but simply waiting, like a storm that can't decide which way to blow. "I don't think you're despicable. I think you're a coward."
He flinched as if she'd struck him, his eyes welling with tears he struggled to blink away. Part of her was awed that she had the power to wound him. The rest was merely sorry. Helpless to stop herself, she cupped his cheek, stroking the bristled skin, wanting to soothe just a little of his pain.
"You don't have to stay a coward," she whispered, her vision breaking in watered stars. "You could change if you wanted. And maybe you wouldn't have to change as much as you think. I know you care about people. Look how you treat Farnham and Mrs. Choate. Look how you love Evangeline and Sebastian. You forgive them their flaws, Nic—and their flaws aren't exactly tiny. You're loyal. You're generous. No one else would have hired a boy like Cristopher. Him and his crazy scarf. They'd have kicked him out on his arse."
"Farnham hired him," Nic said as he wiped her dampened cheeks. His hands shook as much as if her tears were his own.
"You
let
Farnham hire him," she said, "as I'm sure he knew you would."
Without warning, he pulled her into an embrace so tight she could barely breathe. "Oh, God," he said.
"I love you so much it hurts."
She clung to him, let him drop his desperate kisses across her face. They didn't take long to deepen, settling over her mouth and sinking in as his hands slid possessively up and down her back. "Forgive
me," he said, the plea husky enough to sound like a seduction. "Forgive me, Mary. Please."
She moaned as he carried her to the bedroom, as he cradled her against his hardness and breathed her name. He laid her down like a treasure. His touch was gentle, reverent, as if he sensed how fragile the bond between them was. Her mind began to drift with pleasure, but even then she knew: hers was not
the forgiveness he had to earn.
Eighteen
With one leg tucked beneath her. Merry sat on the edge of the bed to watch Nic dress. One by one he pushed the buttons through his shirt, seemingly unaware of her attention or the comfort she took in watching him perform this simple task. This, too, was intimacy, as much as kisses or ardent words. It might not last, but it was sweet. She smiled as he smoothed his palm down the starched white cloth that molded so beautifully to his chest. The gesture spoke of satisfaction, both in the skill of his tailor and in the strength of his fine male form. He might not view his clothes as weapons the way her mother did,
but his pleasure in them ran deep.
The reminder of home brought a tightness to her throat. Nic wasn't the only one who'd been running
from things he feared to face.
But there was nothing she could do about that now. Not here in Venice, not with Nic so real and warm before her. Her gaze followed the hand that tucked his shirt into his trousers, picturing what lay beneath, remembering the way he'd taken her in the night.
After the first time, he'd been less gentle, his thickness forging strongly up inside her, his hands hard and sweaty on her wrists. "Lock your ankles," he'd gasped as the imminence of his finish forced him to fight for air. "Lock your ankles behind me and pull me in."
Now, catching her staring, he smiled lazily through his lashes. "Keep looking at me like that and we'll never leave the palazzo."
She smiled back but did not answer, not sure what she wanted; not sure what
he
wanted, despite the warmth he'd shown.
He'd said he loved her, but the words resisted sinking in. If he'd declared himself before she'd spoken to Cris, she would have leapt to say the same. Now she wondered if she should. She didn't doubt he had a heart, but having a heart wasn't the same as giving it to her, not truly, not fully, the way she'd given hers.
Whatever affection he might feel, he'd proved he wasn't a man who welcomed familial ties.
Troubled, and reluctant to show it, she pleated the folds of her sky-blue skirt between her hands. The dress was another gift from Nic, feminine as well as smart, with bands of black satin braid around the hems. She marveled that he could know her taste better than she did, and still not sense what was in her mind.
"We could take him with us," she said, not daring to look up.
Nic shrugged gracefully into his waistcoat. 'Take who with us?"
"Cristopher," she said. "I'm sure he'd enjoy a chance to see the city."
He paused, clearly caught off guard, then finished fastening the navy silk. "He'll still be angry with me.
I think I should give him time."
"He doesn't even know you know who he is. Do you want to make him wait, biting his nails and wondering if I've told you?"
"I need time, then, Time to decide what the hell I'm going to say. Christ, Mary." He raked his hair back. "What do I know about fifteen-year-old boys?"
"You know you were one."
"And a right young wreck I was, too."
"He needs you," she said. "He came all this way just to get to know you."
Nic's lips tightened, but a moment later his anger washed away on a pensive sigh. "You're right. I have
to do something about him. And I will. Just not this minute."
"Soon," she insisted, pulling one of his hands between her own. His skin was surprisingly cold. She squeezed his chilly fingers. "Today."
He nodded curtly and bent to kiss her. His thumb stroked her temple while his fingertips speared the waves at the edge of her hair. His tongue slipped gently into her mouth, probing once, twice, before drawing wetly back. Merry's heart beat noticeably faster than before.
"Today," he agreed against her lips. "Today, but not right now."
* * *
To Nic, the day was a mockery of the contentment they'd shared before. Instead of embracing the city, they merely walked its streets. Sadness shadowed Merry's smiles. Meaning to make her a gift, he paid
far too many lire for a pair of masks in the bustling alleys of the Mercerie. One was adorned with
emerald feathers, the other painted in diamonds of red and gold. Hoping to make her laugh, he held the big-nosed, feathered half-mask before his eyes.
"We could return for next year's Carnival," he said. "See
La Serenissima
at her wildest."
She gazed at him from under gently lifted brows. A year is a long time, her expression seemed to say.
Do you really think I'll still be with you?
Not wanting to hear the words out loud, Nic pointed out a coffee shop across the cobbled square. "There," he said, "let's warm up with an espresso."
Before she could answer, a group of schoolchildren turnbled into the
campo
, pushing and laughing,
their voices like seabird's cries. They jostled her as they ran by and Nic had to brace her arm to keep
her from stumbling.
"You're tired," he said, knowing he'd kept her out too long.
"A little," she conceded. "I wouldn't mind going back."
She didn't say what they both were thinking: that by dragging her around the city, he'd been putting off his promise to speak to Cris. He wondered if she knew her silence would scrape his conscience more roughly than any scold.
Chagrined, he led her to the nearest landing and hailed a gondolier. As they pulled away, clouds scudded over the red-tiled roofs, marking a change in the weather as surely as Mary's mood. All day he'd been seeing his actions through her eyes, not just what he'd done to Cris in Venice, but what he'd been doing all his life. Oh, he'd known he wasn't behaving honorably, but he'd never had such a vivid comprehension of the sin.
He'd wallowed in guilt, looking at Cristopher as the symbol of his shame, instead of as a person.
Now he realized his shame was worthless.
Only change mattered. Only fulfilling his obligations.
They poled from the Rio dei Fuseri to the Rio di San Moise. Three boats could pass each other on these thoroughfares, and in places only two. The buildings' pale-gold brick closed in on either side, bridges sliding over their heads, flotsam bobbing around their upcurved prow. If he'd wanted, Nic could have reached out to touch the walls. This is my challenge, he thought, to push ahead no matter how cramped the way.
Despite his resolve, he wished Mary had said she loved him. If she'd believed in him, he knew he'd have found the strength to face his father's son.
But she didn't believe in him.
And if she didn't, why should Cristopher, who Nic had disappointed far worse than her?
With skin like ice, he helped her from the boat to the Guardi landing. The canal was low and brackish. He looked up at the windows of the palazzo. Glass winked in their or-
Beyond Seduction 24s
nate frames, the cloverleaf insets at the top throwing back the setting sun.
Maybe Cristopher wouldn't be here. Maybe he'd grown so disgusted he'd already left for home.
Mary touched his coat sleeve, her fingers fanning across the wool. "Don't worry, Nic. He wants to
forgive you."
"But what if I let him down?"
Her laugh was a rush of air. "You'd have to work hard to do that. I suspect he'd be happy with crumbs."
A sudden rise of angry voices interrupted his response. They were English voices, loud and male and so aristocratic they sent a shudder down his spine.
"By God," one shouted, "there she is!"
Nic turned to see a wide, flat-bottomed boat lurch into the final slip. The three large men who rode in it immediately scrambled onto the tide-stained ledge. Behind him, Mary uttered a strangled whimper. He had just enough time to see her face turn white before one of the men barreled into him.
Mary screamed as they both went down at the impact. They would have rolled into the water if Nic hadn't stopped their slide by grabbing the nearest window's grill.
"Get her into the boat," ordered the man who lay atop him.
"Like hell!" said Nic, for which he was rewarded by a ham-sized fist smashing into his nose.
He heard his cartilage snap, blood spurting out in a quick, hot stream.
"Bastard," growled the man, and cocked his arm for another go.
Nic wouldn't have responded half as fiercely if he hadn't seen the others trying to shove Mary into their boat. She was struggling, but eventually they'd overpower her. Thanking Farnham with all his heart, he blocked the punch as he'd been trained, though the force of it ached straight through his forearm. The knee he drove into his attacker's crotch was more effective, and the uppercut to his jaw actually lifted