The Rose Legacy (41 page)

Masterson removed his pince-nez and stared. “When?”

“Today.”

A long moment their eyes held. “You’re forcing his hand.”

“Exactly.”

“And what of the woman?”

Quillan straightened. “She’ll be my wife.”

“This is preposterous, Quillan. You can’t take a wife simply to contrive revenge.”

Quillan didn’t answer. He needn’t point out Carina’s qualities or their effect on him. All Masterson needed to know was that she was inviolable. “She is the one who procured the ledger. Without Miss DiGratia we’d have nothing.”

“Very well.” Ben Masterson tugged the fob and removed his watch from his vest pocket. “Except for those herein named, I’ll speak with the trustees. Beck won’t surrender his power easily, and it could come to war. We can only hope to strike quickly and avoid that.” He replaced his pince-nez on the bridge of his nose but glanced over them. “Happy nuptials.”

Quillan gave him a half smile, turned on his heel, and left. There were details to accomplish. He couldn’t go to a judge, as even those not listed in the ledger might be friendly to Beck and bring word of Quillan’s intention. Beck’s own matrimonial plans were widely known, and it was bound to raise eyebrows.

There were several ministers, but for his own reasons Quillan preferred to avoid them. That left Father Charboneau, whom Quillan had never met personally and who was probably not in the best form today after what happened to his niece. Nonetheless, Quillan would be convincing.

If they performed the ceremony at Mae’s, Cain could witness it without leaving D.C., as the two were suddenly inseparable. Mae could be the second witness, so there would be no question of legality. Beck must not presume for a moment this wedding a sham. Quillan wanted him to know that Carina was in every way his wife, and in that knowing, regret dragging out Quillan’s parentage and blackening his name.

T
WENTY-NINE

Cruelty sustained loses its barb.

—Rose

C
ARINA’S LEGS WERE NUMB
as she climbed the stairs to her room. She closed the door behind her and stood staring at the cot. Then she knelt and pulled out the black satchel. She removed the paper-wrapped garment and set it gently on the bed. Then she pulled out the packet that held her precious mementos.

Sitting down on the cot, she slid the contents onto the blanket. Her heart tugged as she eyed each photograph of her loved ones, alighting at last on the melting features of her dear Flavio. He had not come. Nor would it matter now if he did.

She looked at the bundle of letters tied in a red ribbon, letters filled with his poetry, his words, beautiful and vague. She slipped one out and read it, the words conjuring images and memories poignant and deep. One by one she read the letters, Flavio’s words to her, his promises. Yet he had proved so false. Did she even know him? Had she ever?

He seemed a lifetime away. A dream. An imaginary love whom she had needed to form her self. She’d been Flavio’s darling, Flavio’s intended. But who was she without him?

She was no longer the pampered child who believed he would come a thousand miles to have her back. She was a woman, a woman in love with a dangerous man. Carina trembled. When had she come to love Quillan? When he found her in the mine shaft? When he shared her meal, her stories? When he bared his soul and showed her his pain?

Carina ran a hand over the paper-wrapped gown, then tugged the paper from it. It was beautiful, the fitted sea green bodice embroidered with lacy traceries of shells and spirals accented with seed pearls, the lace underskirt that extended beneath the silk skirting like foam on the waves. The silk sleeves ended beneath the elbow in layers of Italian lace. With each stitch she’d sewn, she had dreamed of wearing this dress for Flavio on their wedding day.

Now it was her wedding day, but Flavio would never see it. With a tight throat, she shook the dress out and laid it across the cot. Would Quillan think her beautiful? The thought sent her rushing to the small oval mirror she had purchased for her wall. Her hair was a riotous mass.

She had washed it furiously the night before after leaving Mr. Beck. She’d wanted no scent of him to remain on her after his threats. Now she trembled. What would he do when he learned? Her hand came to the crucifix at her throat and she stared at the silver emblem. What did it mean to her, this cross she wore?

Nonna had given it to her when she was a child. She said it would always remind her of God’s love, love poured out in the blood of his only Son. Did God love her? Did He have a plan in this madness? Carina stared into the mirror. Was it His will she marry Quillan? Had He brought her to Crystal for that reason?

Carina’s fingers tightened on it. What did she believe? God had used the crucifix to save her life. Used Quillan to save her. He’d gone to the Rose Legacy to find her. The mine his parents had made. They were tied together. Somehow they were interwoven in a pattern she couldn’t see.

A knock came on the door and she jumped. “Who is it?”

“It’s Mae, Carina.”

Carina pulled open the door, and Mae swept in with her broad, rolling gait. With a glance, she took in the dress lying across the cot and turned to Carina. “So he’s not telling tales.”

“Who?”

“Quillan’s downstairs. Says you’re getting hitched.”

Carina’s stomach clenched in apprehension. “He’s here now?”

“In the entry waiting.”

So soon. She gripped her hands together. “And the priest?”

“With him.”

Carina fumbled with the buttons on her blouse, then slipped it off. The skirt was next.

Mae went to the cot and bundled the gown up onto her arms. When Carina bent, she worked it over her head and down. “A nice bit of fancy.”

Carina couldn’t answer. Her voice would betray her trepidation. Mae turned her and started on the tiny pearl buttons up her back. Carina snatched up her brush and worked it swiftly through her hair.

“Hold still, now.” Mae finished the buttons at her neck and turned her. “Land sakes, Carina. You’re the prettiest thing I ever saw.”

Would Quillan think so? Why was he marrying her? To foil Berkley Beck? She brushed the skirts downward from the fitted bodice, then looked at Mae. She must have looked like a frightened deer, because Mae spread her arms, and once again Carina found refuge against her bosom. What would she have done without Mae?

Mae patted her back. “Things must be different now. In my time a man did a bit of courting first.” Her tone was baldly inquisitive.

Carina waved a hand. “Quillan does nothing in the normal way.” That was certainly true of his proposal. But she didn’t want to think too deeply on that. Carina drew herself up. There was nothing more to do but go downstairs and marry the man who had cast her wagon down the mountain.

Quillan saw her coming. Her hair was her veil, and the dress … he’d never seen anything so fine. It set her off like a jewel washed upon a stony shore. His blood surged, and he swallowed the sudden tightness in his throat. Until this moment he hadn’t realized just how incredible she was.

Her outer beauty accented all the things about her that had kept her in his thoughts. Her laugh, her hands waving, her biting wit, her daring, even her naiveté. No wonder Beck risked so much to have her. Carina got under your skin until you wanted to shake her or … or just hold her close.

As she crossed the floor to him, he marveled at the delicacy of her features, the shape of her tiny waist, her deep, liquid eyes. Was he simply thwarting Beck, or had he succumbed like all of Crystal to this woman, this creature from another world? She stopped before him, and he looked down as though he’d never seen her, never carried her, dirty and bruised from a mine shaft, never snatched her out of the street where thugs waited, never tossed her wagon and all she owned over the mountain.

He was surely bewitched. She’d befuddled his mind, his senses. With an effort, he took control. “Are you ready?”

She nodded but looked so apprehensive he wondered for the first time how old she was. He turned to the priest. “Cain will witness. He’s in with his son.”

Father Charboneau appeared not to have heard. He looked gray and distracted. Of course he would, after the horrible thing done to his niece. But he had come. Quillan had impressed on him the importance, if not the reasons, for this hasty ceremony.

“Father?” Carina spoke now.

He came out of his reverie. “Yes?”

“We’re ready now.”

He frowned slightly, then followed them into Mae’s parlor. Quillan waved for Cain to join them, and D.C. followed, wrapped in a quilt. Quillan eyed him dubiously, but the boy seemed hale enough. Mae took her place behind Carina, and Father Charboneau instructed bride and groom to kneel.

With a glance at Cain, Quillan went down on his knees for the first time in years.

Carina knelt down beside Quillan, sensing in him a tension that hadn’t been there a moment ago. She glanced up at Father Antoine. His face was stark. Did he know why she did this? Did he think it insensitive to marry on the same day Èmie suffered so extremely? What had Quillan told him?

As they knelt, Father Antoine spoke the wedding rite, the words washing over her with a solemnity that precluded all other thoughts. She knelt with her eyes closed until Quillan spoke his vows, then she dared a glance at him and couldn’t look away. It didn’t seem real that she was marrying this man, this son of Wolf.

She thought of Rose and Wolf entwined in the flames, their last embrace eternal. But when Father Antoine spoke the vows to her, she repeated the words with all her heart. The priest instructed them to stand, then Quillan took her in his arms and kissed her. It had not the daring or the power of his first kiss. This one was so gentle it brought an ache to her throat.

Then they separated, and she saw in Quillan’s eyes a certain fire. He turned and thanked the priest, Cain, and Mae, winked at D.C., then took Carina’s hand and led her out. Carina blinked in the sunshine’s glare when he stopped her at the porch stairs. The blacks stood there, hides shining, manes and tails brushed. Somewhere he had found a side saddle, and he lifted her onto it now.

She settled her skirt and the billows of lace around her feet. He stood a long minute looking at her there, then mounted Jock. He turned with a roguish grin. “Want to race?”

It was just what she needed to break her stupor. She laughed and dropped her chin. “I know better.”

He turned his horse, and they rode out of Crystal and up the gulch. The afternoon sun was hot and bright, the breeze wild flower scented, the Indian paintbrush’s brilliant orange flecks among the fuchsia lupine and bluebells. Quillan’s hair blew behind his head like silken cloth of honey brown, and Carina wanted to touch it. Were such thoughts permissible now?

She had thought sometimes of touching Flavio, had even allowed him to kiss her. Not as Quillan had, she realized, thinking back. She had kissed him as her cousin, as her darling boy, her dark poet. Quillan was her husband. A thrill passed through her.

They rode to a place where the creek tumbled over a cascade of rocks. A bluebottle fly darted over the crystalline water, and somewhere close a meadowlark sang. Quillan turned. “Far enough?”

Carina looked around at the sparkling beauty, then shook her head.

“I want to go higher.” She pulled Jack up beside Jock. “Do you hear that?” She tipped her head toward the whistling birdsong. “You never hear that in Crystal. Any birds that try to sing are drowned out by the cacophony. And the higher you go, the more there are.”

Quillan didn’t answer, just nudged Jock on. They came to the Placerville valley, and Carina studied it again without any buildings. She was relieved they were gone. Then she looked up the narrow gulch where the wall of water had come and carried Dom away. She turned automatically toward the track that led to the Rose Legacy.

“Not that way.” Quillan’s voice was low.

She looked back over her shoulder. “Why not?”

“I don’t want to go up there.”

She could see there was no question in either of their minds where she meant to go. The mine called her as it always did. But this time she wanted to be there with Quillan. It was his mine. His legacy. “Come up, Quillan.”

He crossed his wrists atop the saddle horn. “Just because I married you doesn’t mean you can start telling me what to do.”

“I’m not telling.”

He half smirked. “What would you call it?”

She cocked her head. “Urging.” She started Jack up the track.

“Carina.”

She patted Jack’s neck, sensing his hesitation. He didn’t want to leave Jock and Quillan behind. But she nudged him on with her heels. In a moment she heard Jock following. She flashed a glance at Quillan and saw him staring up the mountain with a fixed expression. Was it a mistake to push it?

What did she know of his inner feelings? She had only a sense of his turmoil and the bitterness she’d seen. She hadn’t been to the mine since he’d found her there. She’d been afraid for a time, then things had happened so quickly in Crystal. This seemed a stolen pleasure. They’d stepped outside of all the tumult, and time stood still for them.

Jack followed the track energetically now that Jock was on his heels. She suspected he enjoyed the lead spot for a change. She bit her lip on a smile of satisfaction herself. When they reached the Gold Creek Mine, Quillan reined in and dismounted. He led Jock to the spring to drink, then came and lifted Carina down. His hands remained on her waist, and he looked down into her face.

Carina felt warm under his gaze. “We’ve been here before.”

“I seem to recall.” Amusement touched the corners of his eyes. “I should have known then.”

“Known what?”

He turned and watched Jock at the spring, then released her and led Jack to drink. She held her skirts up, keeping the lace from the dirt, and followed. Quillan stood with his hands in the pockets of his gray linen pants. She hadn’t noticed the fine trousers, the boiled shirt.

He tipped his chin up and worked a kink from his neck. His face was clean shaven except for the mustache, which once again reached below the line of his mouth at the sides. Had Wolf worn a mustache? Had his hair caught in the breeze and tempted the fingers as Quillan’s did? What had Rose felt when he reached out his hand to her?

Quillan’s eyes swiveled to the side and found hers on him. It was natural for them to linger. Just as she’d stared at him the morning they woke there together, she stared now. There was beauty in his features, the dark rim of his eyes, the angle of his eyebrows, the nearly straight line of his nose. He had a fine brow and his hair sprang from it in little arches streaked with sun.

“What are you thinking?” His voice was soft.

“You’re very like Wolf.” She saw him tense, almost flinch.

His eyes narrowed. “How would you know?”

She shrugged. “As I imagine him.”

His throat worked and the muscle on one side of his jaw clenched and released. “How do you imagine him, Carina?”