Secrets (16 page)

He closed his eyes. Every time he managed to shove her out of his thoughts, she invaded his mind again. This time he wasn't remembering her eyes or her hair, her gratitude or her graciousness. This time he was recalling how she had been clinging to him, her hands locked around his neck, kissing him back, openmouthed and eager, uninstructed and passionate. And after such a long period of celibacy, it only took an instant for him to become aroused. He could not stand it. He could not stand this.

There was a soft rapping on his door. Slade froze. He knew who it was. It was Elizabeth.

He wished she would go away. He wished she would stay. He did not move. He did not dare. When the knocking came again, more insistent, he turned slowly to face the screens. His eyes widened when he saw Lucinda standing there instead of Elizabeth.

Lucinda had the screen doors ajar. “Slade.” She smiled, but it was questioning. “Can I come in?”

He should have guessed. This was not the first time she had come to his room. He was immensely relieved…he was vastly disappointed.

“Slade. Can I come in?”

His jaw flexed. She had been after him for years. He was the only brother who had not taken her. She did not interest him. She had slept with everything male that was human and capable of fornicating on this side of the county line. She'd slept with both of his brothers, although not recently. James had ceased dallying with her many years ago, way before his engagement, and Edward had found greener pastures before he'd reached fourteen. Still, boys talked the same as men did. He knew she was a good lay, an insatiable lay. Tonight he needed a woman, badly. Then he looked past Lucinda's blurred features, toward Elizabeth's room. The dark woman standing at his door could not possibly substitute for his bride.

“No,” was all he said, turning away. But even as he gave her his back, his body hurt, and his mind thought about the fact that he would never have Elizabeth, because he was not going to betray James. Not ever.

Yet he was human—a man. He was not foolish enough to think that he would become totally celibate after his marriage. He wished he could, but it was not in his nature; he wished he would not have the aching hunger inside him, now focused only on her. Elizabeth was a lady, and although he was not too familiar with ladies, he was a fast learner, and in this case he promised himself he would be even faster. He would treat her as she deserved to be treated to
the best of his ability. When his body reached the breaking point and he had to seek comfort outside of their marriage, he would be discreet. He intended that she never know.

“Slade,” Lucinda whispered, behind him.

Slade wheeled, furious. He had not heard her enter. “Get out.”

Her eyes had a wild light. “You need me.” She smiled, her hand cupping his stiff sex.

He knocked it away. Never, ever would he take a woman just days before his wedding to Elizabeth, even if that marriage would never be consummated, and certainly not under the same roof as his bride. “When I say no I mean no.” He dragged her to the doors. He pushed her outside, into the cool, misty darkness. “Don't you dare come in here again.”

Lucinda stared at him. “What's wrong with you?” she whispered. “I know it could be good, I know it! Why are you this way? Why do you have to make everything so serious? Why do you have to take everything so seriously?”

Slade had known her his entire life. Honest, he grimaced. “Damned if I know, Lucinda. Damned if I know.”

She looked at him, somber and regretful, then turned and faded into the night. Slade stared after her, almost calling her back.

He had not chosen to live in a mostly celibate manner out of preference. But as a bachelor his choices were few. The gentlewomen who were available to him—the married ladies who took lovers behind their husbands' backs—disgusted him. He had never accepted an invitation from that kind of woman and he never would. Unmarried ladies were looking for marriage, and as they obviously would not be interested in him, they were out of bounds. For a bachelor, that left two alternatives, a mistress or a whore.

Slade had never kept a mistress. These women seemed no different to him than prostitutes or the married women masquerading as proper ladies. They were bought
and paid for like the former, and as immoral as the latter. He did not want a woman in his bed who preferred the material favors he would give her over him. Not on a steady basis. That left prostitutes as a last and rarely pleasant resort.

He was a sexual man and he knew it. He'd known it since puberty. He did his best to ignore it. When the hunger got too great, he frequented the cleanest establishment he knew of. By then the need was out of control, but the resulting night of endless fornication was never satisfying. No matter how many times he found physical release, being with a prostitute was about as much fun as masturbating. Sometimes even less so.

Before he'd come home, he'd been about due for one of those long feverish nights. But James's death had effectively killed the lust in his body. Until the moment he'd laid eyes on Elizabeth Sinclair.

Unfortunately, that was all it had taken, one moment, and he'd felt the hot hard hunger begin to uncoil deep and low inside him. It had a different feel to it this time, enough so to frighten him and make him avoid thinking too hard about why it was different. Tonight he had reached the breaking point. Tonight he had almost thrown all his resolution to the wind, all his vows, all of his promises to James. And she would have been willing. Very, very willing.

He had come close to taking her. One kiss would have led to the final act. His hunger was that raw, that explosive. How he had wanted to kiss her! Even now, he could feel her lips soft and open and hungry but innocent beneath his. Slade cursed.

He paced away from the bed, his body lean and sinewed, his phallus hard and erect. He moved to the big oak bureau and poured himself a glass of brandy from the decanter there. He sipped it. It did not numb his aching body. He needed release and he needed it badly, he needed it soon. There was more frustration—and more need—than he'd ever experienced before.

God, how was he going to survive his marriage?

Again Slade looked toward the courtyard. She wouldn't leave him alone. Damn her! Or was it that
he
couldn't leave
her
alone? He could just barely distinguish the shadowy outline of the house on the opposite side of the courtyard. Soon the fog would be so thick he wouldn't be able to see even the fountain. But he didn't have to see clearly; just knowing she was so close—and so far—was enough.

He stalked toward the screen doors.

He paused in front of them. He stared hard through the tendrils of mist at her closed doors, as if staring hard enough and long enough might enable him to penetrate the thick wood with his vision and see within. She would be sleeping in that high-necked nightgown she wore, her hair loose and flowing, her mouth softly parted.

His sex reared up fully again, a partner to his imagination. For he had quickly stripped her naked in his mind, had quickly pushed her beneath his hungry body. Slade gripped the doorknob, for an instant about to wrench the door open and go to her.
God, he needed her!
But James was between them. He would always be between them. She was his bride, but it was a sham. She would always belong to James, even though he was dead. His hand tightened on the brass knob, and he pressed his tortured body into the screen mesh. His breathing came faster.

It was too damn easy to imagine Elizabeth in his bed, and it was hell. He saw her sprawled and restless and waiting for him, but it wasn't her beautiful body he concentrated on, it was her face. He'd be merciless. He wouldn't stop. He wouldn't be able to stop. He would make love to her until they both dropped from exhaustion.

He would make love to her…
His breath caught. He was afraid. He had guessed the reason why the lust was so different this time. He had never in his life made love to a woman before, but that's what he wanted to do to her. Badly. Very, very badly.

Slade closed his eyes, leaning hard against the screen. He couldn't stand being in his own body another moment, was ready to jump out of his own skin. Forget surviving his marriage—he wasn't sure he could make it through these next few days.

U
nable to sleep, Regina got out of bed just after sunrise.

She had watched it. It had been glorious. In the east the sky had begun to turn gray. Then abruptly it had glowed pink and a burning orange ball had emerged from behind the rim of wheat-hued mountains. For many minutes the canvas-colored sky had been splashed with rainbow colors of pink and green and apricot, as if assaulted by the mad hand of an abandoned modern artist, so vivid they had taken Regina's breath away. And the morning had become alive with birdsong.

Regina had spent most of the night tossing and turning. Her wedding was just three days away. And while she had gone to bed worrying about the intruder and wondering what his invasion signified, she soon forgot the theft of her locket, recalling Slade's promise, his declaration of loyalty. Her mind swam with his image, playing with the possibilities the future might bring. They were all glorious. Slade would gaze deeply into her eyes as they exchanged vows, and afterward he would take her in his arms, kissing her with the kind of passion she had only read about. And later, later when they were alone, before he would ravish her, he would
tell her he loved her, and that he had loved her since they had first met.

Regina chastised herself for being as foolish as a dreamy young girl, but in her heart she was yearning so hard for the realization of her dreams that she just knew they would come true.

She had heard that brides often grew so nervous before their weddings that they were afflicted with second thoughts. She was marrying a stranger, she had amnesia, and his family sometimes frightened her, but she was not hesitating at all. She could not wait for Sunday, the day they were to be wed.

The idea left her breathless. Slade beckoned her like a beacon light beckons a lost, wind-tossed ship in a dark and stormy sea.

Naturally she imagined walking down the aisle of a church, where Slade would await her at its end, magnificent in a black tailcoat. Her dress was every bride's dream, custom-tailored by Worth or Paquin, the bodice the most delicate lace, beaded with pearls, the abundant skirts frothing tulle and glinting with diamants.

Regina paused, frowning. Where
was
her wedding dress?

She grew very still. Her wedding was this Sunday, in three days. She had gone through all of her trunks. There was no wedding gown among her things. She knew that for a fact.

Regina sat down hard on a chair, stunned. She was getting married on Sunday, today was Thursday, and she did not have a wedding gown.

It must have been sent separately, she thought instantly. But that was so risky that it was utterly foolish. For if the trunk got lost, as it apparently had, she was up a creek without a paddle. But there might not have been a choice if the gown wasn't quite ready when she had left London. Or perhaps there were other trunks of hers that had been missed in the confusion that had ensued when her train had arrived in Templeton without her on it.

She realized that she was also missing her trousseau.

Regina did not even breathe. Did that mean that two trunks were missing? For a bride's dress would be packed so carefully that it would take up an entire trunk by itself. But there was no reason for a trousseau to have been shipped separately. Her trousseau would have been prepared well in advance of her departure date.

But didn't the very same logic apply to her wedding gown? Her heart began to thud heavily. She had been engaged for five years. She had known the date of her wedding for five years. One did not wait until the last minute to have a wedding gown made when one had such a long engagement. Of course the gown would have been ready. There would have been absolutely no reason to ship it separately.

Then why was it not among her things?

Because, she told herself with flaring panic, it was still at the train station in Templeton. Regina covered her face with her hands, trembling. She did not want to listen to the ghostly voice inside her head that was insisting upon another possibility, one she did not want to entertain.

What if she were not Elizabeth?

She jumped to her feet and began pacing wildly. Of course she was Elizabeth! What a foolish idea! Rick had met her once five years ago, and again at her father's funeral. He knew her! But…people change in five years. And at her father's funeral she would have been veiled. If she bore a superficial resemblance to Elizabeth Sinclair, then he might have mistaken who she was.

She gripped the bureau and stared at her shocked expression in the mirror. If she were not Elizabeth Sinclair it would explain why she had no trousseau and no wedding gown among her possessions. It would explain the locket with the initials
RS
upon it. It wasn't possible, was it? Could such a mistake have been made these past few days?

“No!” She shook her head in denial. “I
am
Elizabeth—I have to be! Slade and I are getting married in three days!”

But the thought had been planted in her mind. It frightened her. For if she weren't Elizabeth Sinclair, then who was she?

 

Very cautiously Regina approached Edward. She was certain that he would help her. There was no one else she would even think of turning to, not even Slade—especially not Slade. She had waited until all of the family had left the house. Victoria was gone for the day. And Slade and Rick had ridden out before breakfast; Regina had not even glimpsed them. She was relieved for that. Slade would take one look at her and know that she was distraught. He was too sensitive, despite his wanting the world to think otherwise. Until Regina solved the riddle of her wedding dress herself, she did not want to see him. Even more important than the issue of her missing gown was her own doubts, her very secret—but foolish, she told herself—anxiety that she might not be Elizabeth Sinclair. She did not want Slade to even guess that she had such thoughts. And it was no longer important for her to tell him about the theft of her locket the night before.

Today Edward was not impeccably dressed. He wore denim pants and a faded pale-blue flannel work shirt. Even in a working cowboy's attire, though, he was striking. Regina saw him leaving the house. She ran after him, calling out his name.

He turned with that devastating smile of his, one she was sure had caused many hearts to flutter and break, even though, she had learned, he was only twenty-two years old.

“Good morning,” he said, his glance sliding over her appreciatively. “You know what? I think I could become jealous of my brother.”

Regina did not blush, yet she sensed that he was being sincere. “You are very flattering, Edward.”

He smiled. “There are few women who could deserve flattery more, Elizabeth. I hope Slade appreciates his good fortune.”

Regina hoped so, too. Very much.

“Is something on your mind?”

“Yes, there is.” She smiled back. “Edward, I need your help. I have a problem. But—” She touched his arm. “I really don't want to worry Slade.”

He smiled again, but it did not reach his eyes this time. He was gallant, but Regina almost felt as if he understood they were forming a secret pact. “I would never worry my brother needlessly, especially now, a few days before his wedding. How can I help you?”

She took a breath. “I've gone through all my things and my wedding gown is missing.”

He raised a brow. His glance was unreadable. “Ah. A definite problem.”

She opened her mouth to tell him that not only didn't she have a dress, she didn't have a trousseau, either. Instinct stopped her. She did not want Edward, or anyone, to know of those unsettling circumstances. She was afraid that if
she
had become suspicious of those facts, if
she
had become suspicious of her own identity, so would everyone else. Indeed, Edward's smile and unfathomable expression were almost worrisome. He did not appear ruffled by her revelation. “The dress must have been shipped separately, of course,” she said instead, “and obviously it has been lost.”

“Yes, that would seem to be the case.” Edward took out a cigarette and lit it slowly.

“Or could I have more trunks in Templeton?” Regina asked casually. “Perhaps a bag has been overlooked.”

Edward lazily blew out a stream of smoke. “You don't have any luggage in town. There was a lot of confusion, but after all the passengers had reboarded and claimed their bags, yours and your chaperone's were all that were left.”

“Oh, dear.” Regina was pale. She had been praying that one of her trunks was missing—and that it would be found in Templeton. “Edward?” She forced a smile. “Did my luggage have name tags?”

“No, it didn't.” His glance was keen as it met hers. “But that's not so odd, you know.”

Regina froze. Edward guessed. She was certain of it.

But how could he be suspicious of who she was? And if he was, then why hadn't he said something, not to her, but to Rick, or Slade? She stared at him, but he wasn't looking at her now; he was blowing a series of playful smoke rings into the air and watching them drift apart.

Regina tried telling herself that she was wrong, that she was overwrought, and that Edward did not even fathom the possibility that she might not be Elizabeth Sinclair. She had a pounding headache now. She tried to think through the stabbing pain about the lack of name tags on her bags. It could mean something, or it could not. Many people traveled with tagged baggage, many did not.
I am Elizabeth
, she told herself fiercely.
I'm getting myself upset for no reason! Obviously the gown was sent ahead, ahead, and it got lost!

“Are you all right, Elizabeth?”

She jumped, praying her eyes were not as wild as her nerves. “What am I going to do?”

“Relax,” Edward said, regarding her. “What do you want to do?”

She wondered if there was a double meaning to his question. It was impossible to guess at Edward's thoughts, hidden as they were behind his handsome face and easy smile. “I need a dress.”

His smile broadened. “Don't fret. I was supposed to put in my time and mend fences with Rick and Slade today, but I think we'll make a trip into Paso Robles instead.”

“And?”

“We're going hunting,” he told her evenly. “Hunting for a wedding gown.”

“But I'm getting married this Sunday!”

“I'm sure we can find something new and white and pretty. And by offering a slight bit of encouragement—in dollars, of course—we can have that dress altered and ready by noon on Sunday.”

“I hope you're right,” Regina breathed. And she firmly shoved all her doubts from her mind—until Edward's next words.

He said, looking at her, “And we don't have to tell anybody.”

 

“Where the hell
is
everybody?” Rick demanded.

Slade shrugged. The two men were alone in the den as the supper hour approached. Rick was pouring them both drinks. After being out on the range all day, both men had bathed and put on clean, comfortable clothes. Slade's hair was still wet. He wanted to know where everyone was too; he particularly wanted to know where Elizabeth was. It hadn't escaped his attention that Edward was also missing.

Lucinda appeared, carrying a plate of cut-up melons, all homegrown, which Slade had requested. She set it down on a big engraved chest which served as a coffee table, gave him a smile, and walked out. Slade was reminded of last night. He sank onto the couch and began eating, ignoring the drink Rick offered.

“You better stop fooling with her,” Rick warned. “Your little bride won't be too happy if she gets wind of it.”

Slade didn't look up, licking the juice from his hands. It wasn't easy to remain calm. Anger boiled up in him. He wasn't sleeping with Lucinda and he never had. Last night had been sheer hell. Last night he could have found a cold kind of comfort in her arms, and he hadn't. He was not in the mood to take this kind of criticism from Rick, not today, not when he was waging a constant battle with himself, and coming so close to losing. “Drop it,” he warned.

But Rick wouldn't. “Elizabeth's a real lady, and real ladies are sensitive. She's not going to put up with philandering. For once, be smart. You don't know how lucky you are.”

Slade kicked his feet up on the chest and put his hands behind his head. Lucky? That was a laugh. He was the unluckiest man alive, to be marrying a woman like Elizabeth Sinclair, a woman who belonged to his brother, a woman he could never have. But if he could have a real marriage with her, then he would be very lucky, and he was well aware of it.

“You want her to find out and run, right?” Rick said.

Slade scowled. “You know, you've been judging me guilty ever since I can remember. And I'm getting sick and tired of it.”

“What am I supposed to do when I see you doing damn fool things? Like foolin' with Lucinda? Leave the damn maid alone. Elizabeth is the best thing that's ever happened to you, boy, I'm telling you that now.”

Abruptly Slade's boots hit the floor and he sat up. “You know what? You're the goddamn fool.”

“Like hell I am.”

He gritted his teeth. “You won't believe this, but I have never touched Lucinda, and I doubt I ever will.”

Rick snorted, incredulous.

Slade flushed, both angry and embarrassed. Why in hell had he bothered explaining anything? Rick wanted to believe the worst, he always had, and Slade had stopped defending himself ten years ago—the night he had run away. “I want to talk.”

Rick settled back comfortably. “What's on your mind?”

Slade got to his feet. “After Sunday, I'm calling the shots around here.”

Rick blinked, and then he hooted. “Over my dead body!”

“Oh, no,” Slade said very softly. He stalked around the big Spanish chest and confronted Rick. “I'm marrying Elizabeth. I'm going to control her money. I'm holding the purse strings around here after Sunday, and we're gonna do things my way.”