Читать книгу Season of The Shadow - Bobbi Ph.D. Groover - Страница 6

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Kyndee was deep in her thoughts. A knock on the door startled her.

"Katharine? Empress Katharine, may I come in?" It was her father's voice.

"Go away. I don't want to talk to anyone," she called from her bed.

Katharine. She wasn't fond of the name. Her young godson stumbled on it every time he spoke to her. It seemed to come out more as Kytee every time he had spoken it. He settled on Kyndee one day and after being teased about it all afternoon the name stuck with her, within the family of course. To any other than intimates, she was Katharine.

She was named after the sixteenth century queen of England, Katharine of Aragon, who had courage, integrity, and dignity, and who withstood her misfortunes with Henry VIII.

Her father loved history and had told her tales of faraway countries as bedtime stories. She had closed her eyes and given her imagination free rein to see in her mind's eye the princes and dragons of his stories. Tales of knights in shining armor, of battles won and lost, of hearts in love and broken, had delighted her and created a special bond between the two of them.

He called her his princess when he hugged her, his queen when she knew he was proud of her, the duchess when she pouted, and the empress when she acted like a spoiled, willful child which is how he obviously thought she was acting now.

"Katharine. I need an audience with the queen." His voice was urgent, and it broke her heart to refuse him. She adored him and would have done anything for him, would do anything for him.

Anything but this.

"Kyndee—open the door," he said quietly. It was simple, direct, and it wounded her. She rose and turned the key.

He entered the room and hugged her. "I'm sorry I lost my temper. I know the announcement must have come as a shock to you. May we talk—you and I—without your mother and Great Aunt Hetty interrupting and chattering about frivolous things which don't matter anyway? Hmmm? May I have my audience with the queen?"

Kyndee pulled away and walked to the window. She seated herself on the cushion of the deep window seat. "Papa, I'm not a little girl anymore. You can't win me to your side by your talk of queens, princes and knights in shining armor."

Her father rubbed his hands together and sighed. He clicked his tongue as he picked up a straight-back chair and set it down beside her.

"No, Kyndee, my girl, you're not," he said, his expression somber. "You're a woman grown with a quick intelligent mind and a warm loving heart. I've been proud of you everyday of your life. You're the picture of your mother as she was in the first years of our marriage. But over the last years I've had to sit by and watch you fade into yourself; watch you wither like a flower that stayed too long and is now caught by the first frost of winter. You stay in your room reading or sewing. If you never sew another sampler, you have enough to fill the walls of twenty rooms. You've enough petit point pillows to cover a hundred beds and chairs. You've refused every invitation that's come until they've stopped coming."

Kyndee worked one hand against the other. In the end, she clasped them in her lap and took a deep breath. "Papa, I—"

He took her hands between his palms. When he was close to her like this, she could smell his familiar scents: horses, leather, that particular brand of tobacco whose name she could never remember. They were comforting smells of another time when she was different.

"Where's your laughter? Where's the spontaneous devilish imp who used to drive her parents to distraction with her tomfoolery?"

That foolish imp is with Fletcher—wherever he is.

"You play the maiden aunt to the hilt, as if you were born to it, and it breaks my heart to wonder what will become of you when your mother and I are gone." He pressed on as if he took her silence for some small weakening, some small advantage. "Buck's a good man, and I believe he'll take good care of you. As crown prince of Seabrook, he's certainly been the talk of the social rounds, setting all the does' hearts aflutter. He's the most eligible buck around." Her father chuckled and reddened as if realizing the irony of his choice of words.

"But I don't love Buck, Papa," she protested hotly. "I don't even like him."

Stuart Brock stood. He then cleared his throat and paced the spacious room as if he didn't know how to force the words out. He ran his hand up and down the dark mahogany of the bedpost. His face was paled and his jaw clenched tight.

"There's another reason, daughter."

Oh my—this must be serious. Papa only uses that term when the game is in check and he has the final move for checkmate. Kyndee felt her gut tighten as she gripped the sides of the cushion beneath her.

"Your mother doesn't know—no one does...yet. I'm sure several people have wondered, they've even hinted as much to some of my friends, but they don't know for certain." He strode back to sit in front of her. The chair legs scraped the wooden floor as he pulled it closer to her. "You're old enough to handle the truth and the ramifications that it entails." He moistened his lips and swallowed. "Daughter, we're in debt—very large debt. I've had to do some fancy finagling to keep the place running and the wolves at bay. But it's come to the end. It's time to pay up, take off the blindfold. I've used up all my markers."

Kyndee's head snapped up, her senses now alerted to the danger to her family. "Papa, how did this happen?"

Her father rested his elbows on his knees and put his head in his hands. He didn't speak for several minutes.

"Because I was weak," he said with a woebegone shrug. "I gave in to my weakness for gambling, strong drink, and bad timing. When I saw what was happening, I tried to correct it with new investments. I thought I could recoup the money. But I listened to the wrong people, the wrong advice, and I lost the investments and more. Daughter, we are in danger of losing everything! Everything! Do you realize what I'm saying? The threat to our lives will become reality except for one hope—Buck."

Kyndee felt her familiar room closing in on her. The cozy secure feeling it had always held, fled. She felt trapped and unprepared for what she feared was coming. Her mouth had suddenly gone dry. "Buck? Our one hope? What has he to do with any of this?" Before the words escaped her father's lips, she saw his ashen face and was sure then that she didn't want to know the answer.

His father spoke softly but clearly; there was no way to misinterpret his words. "Buck has offered to pay off my markers and salvage my losses the day he marries you. It's the answer to a prayer."

Kyndee gave no response, and her father looked up. It was an iniquitous solution, and she tried to convey as much to her father with a wintry glare. "Whose prayer, Papa? Yours or mine?" she chided him. It shocked her to speak to her father that way but being forced against her will riled her.

He slapped his hand on his thigh. The force of it gave an indication of his growing frustration and impatience. "Daughter, think! You'd be married to a fine gentleman, owner of a vast plantation. He's done well by Seabrook since Samuel died. You'd have someone to love you, take care of you and grow old with you. You will have his protection and his name. At the same time, our beautiful home, saved by his generosity, will not be sold at auction by some outsider. It will be safe, in trust for you and your children. When your mother and I are gone, this place will pass to you, to be joined with Seabrook. It's a marvelous solution to everything."

The skin on her the back of her hand was becoming raw from the pinching and rubbing of her other hand. "Except that I'm what's to be auctioned off—sold to the highest bidder, so to speak," she retorted, tossing her head and rising.

"No. You are doing what's right—"

"Right for whom?" she demanded with arms akimbo.

"Right for all of us. This home has been in our family for generations. I regret that my stupidity has jeopardized it. But you have a chance to save us. It's a question of honor, Kyndee. The honor of our family is at stake. You were named after a great queen. Can you not summon a bit of her courage? I wouldn't ask you if Buck were a monster. But he's not and I think maybe, in time, you might grow to love him. You're old enough to know that fairy tale love is for fools and you, my girl, are no fool. Surely you see the advantages of this match. Our future, your future—the future of your children and grandchildren—will be assured. Won't you do this for us—for all of us?"

Her father talked of honor and courage, knowing full well the high esteem she placed upon them. It was up to her to rescue her family from this danger. With Fletcher gone and nothing else to fill her life, the alternative loomed before her. Kyndee squared her shoulders and straightened her back.

Her heart ached, full of sorrow: for her father in his weakness; for herself, because being forced to see her father as anything but a tower of strength had brought an end to her childhood; and oddly enough, for Buck because he was buying himself an empty shell of a wife.

"Yes, Papa, I will." An empty shell she may be, but she was not a coward, though a part of her regretted her words even before they passed through her lips. "There is one condition."

"Name it."

"I want you to tell me everything—who holds your markers, how, when, where; I want to know it all."

"Agreed, but I want your vow that the information will remain strictly between us." Her father stood, raised her up with him and kissed her on the cheek. "I do love you, Queen Katharine." Turning on his heel, he left her room.

Kyndee knew the pattern: he had his answer, he had his solution, and the issue would be dismissed from his mind.

She looked to her bed with the still crumpled pillows, and knew he was there—the devil—sitting puffed-up on the coverlet. He was laughing at her; he had won. He had taunted her with the one weapon she could not fight and sneered at her hesitation. He hadn't even given her a chance to lunge and parry but had crudely driven home the blade for the kill.

She had agreed to marry Buck Bannistre—no, Buck Stedman. The thought of it sent a thundercloud hurtling through her brain. Propping her shoulder on the window casement, she sighed and gazed out. The leisurely pace of their lives would continue, totally unaware that until a moment ago, its very existence had been precarious.

Maybe the cloud wasn't as dark as it appeared. She didn't know why she had an aversion to Buck. He had always been polite and kind. He wasn't unattractive. He had even shown a degree of tenderness in those terrible months after Fletcher's disappearance.

"Fletcher." His very name on her lips was soothing to her. "I wonder what he would think of all this if he cared to look down from whatever cloud he sits upon." She giggled. "He'd swoop down with his fiery sword and challenge the Black Knight. He'd win the joust and carry me off to be his queen—"

Queen Katharine. Courage. Honor. Her smile faded. Yes. She would live up to her promise and become Mrs. Stedman.

Kyndee laughed, a painful melancholic laugh, at the irony of it. She would be a Stedman as she had always dreamed, but the man to be her husband was not at all the man she had pictured in her slumbers.

Physically, the two men were as different as the shadow of the night from the brightness of the day. Buck was strikingly innocent looking under a mass of blonde curls with dull tawny eyes, whereas Fletcher had had the grin of a rogue with his black mane and teasing blue eyes. Buck was tall, thin and wiry, Fletcher slightly shorter but broad and big-boned. Buck was safe, sensible, a planner; Fletcher had been reckless, untamed, and spontaneous.

Fletcher had been...had been...had been. My love.

But enough of childhood dreams. At stake was her family's honor and her duty, and she would not fail. No one but her father and herself would ever know the truth.

Kyndee splashed water on her face and combed her hair. Then, with calm resolution, she opened her door and went downstairs to tell her mother there was a wedding to plan.

* * *

Lying next to Sage's slender form in the wee gray hours before dawn, Fletcher shifted and stretched his corded muscles, unwilling to surrender his blissful hold on sleep. He lay still and pondered over the recent weeks.

Sage. He had slept with her—kissed and caressed her but not once did he try to fully possess her. He was afraid it would break the spell, and he was too content. He wondered if indeed he was dimwitted that he allowed such a precious jewel to pass unclaimed.

Just last night she had asked him about it...

* * *

"Zack?" Sage had whispered. She lay beside him and tangled her fingers in the curls at the back of his hair. "Do you think I'm pretty?"

He'd been nestled flat, with his face in the crook of his arm. He lifted his heavy head to gaze at her, his eyelids but half open. "Why do you ask?" he answered, calm and drowsy.

"I was only wondering," she said. "Hmmm? Do you?"

"Do I what?" he replied, casting her a devilish one-eyed grin.

She raised up and supported herself on her elbow. Her silky hair spilled over her shoulders creating an alluring picture. "Do you think I'm pretty?"

"Um hm, I think you're positively enchanting."

"Then why have you never made love to me?"

Fletcher turned over and linked his fingers behind his neck. He exhaled and studied the shadows on the ceiling. To possess her body as Zachary Brown would be the cruelest lie of all. Then she would become for him another face in a huge web of lies and deceit, and that he couldn't bear. He had too much respect and genuine affection for her. The only way out was to tell her everything. He held back from it because of another time and another place. He had once trusted another woman with his soul, and it had cost him nearly ten years of his life.

No, it's better this way.

As he lay still, not answering, she continued, "Do you have...a malady or affliction?" She quickly added, "I've heard the old matrons talking. They whisper about such things."

"How interesting!" He shifted himself onto his arm, his curiosity greatly piqued. "And what, pray tell, do they whisper?" The boldness of the woman beside him never ceased to amaze him. Malady? Affliction?

"Only that—" she stammered as if sorry she had begun. "Only that...sometimes a man cannot—" Her fingers splayed in exasperation. "Well...can before but cannot when—"

Suddenly realizing full well her direction, Fletcher was amused by her discomfiture. "Yes?"

"You see, Mrs....I shouldn't mention names...said that her friend's husband...that when they...when he—" Sage bit her lip. "She called it his 'affliction' and for the life of me I couldn't tell if she meant her friend was relieved or upset about it."

He tilted his head and squinted at her. "Because I have not fully joined with you, are you asking me if I fear that, at the precise moment, my...uh...manhood will cease to serve me?"

She nodded, reddening to the roots of her hair. "Well...yes. I guess so."

Fletcher fell back into the pillows, wheezing and choking with his laughter. "I've many imperfections, my sweet lovely Sage, but that, I can assure you, is not one of them." He cradled her and hugged her close, his lips caressing her brow. "My restraint is born of a sincere concern for you." And a selfish fear even I don't understand. "Now go to sleep."

That seemed to have pleased her and they had slept...

* * *

Now Sage stirred beside him and, sliding his hand around her waist, he drew her into his arms. "Go back to sleep, sweet thing," he cooed, giving her a light kiss on the tip of her nose. "It's not yet dawn."

His hard gnarled heart softened when she smiled a sleepy grin and snuggled closer to him. Touching his temple with her lips, she tangled her fingers in his beard. "You hairy old dog. This tickles me at night," she murmured with a giggle.

Fletcher smoothed his beard with his hand. "Tickles you? You should feel it from my side when you do that." He cupped her chin and covered her mouth with his, quenching his need with the delicious sensation.

After a moment, Sage pulled away. "Zack?"

"Hmmmm? He kissed her ear and nuzzled her throat.

"I saw you buying supplies yesterday." She ran her fingers up and down his spine, her feather touch tingling every nerve.

He groaned a low assent as his kisses nibbled at her other ear.

Her fingers stopped. "You're getting ready to leave, aren't you?"

He supported himself on one elbow and handed her his other forearm. "Would you massage right here for me, sweet? The muscles seemed to have gone into spasm after Whiz pulled on me yesterday."

She took his face in her hands forcing his complete attention. "Zack, talk to me; tell me. You're leaving aren't you?"

Fletcher moved away and lay back on the pillow. He exhaled a heavy breath. "I have to."

"When?" There was a crack in her voice.

Glancing at her sideways he murmured, "Soon."

He hated himself for the gloom he heard in her voice and the knowledge that he'd put it there. He rolled onto his side to face her and slid his palm along the crest of her shoulder. "I'd love nothing better than to stay here with you, but I have unfinished business which can't be put off. It's long overdue as it is."

Her voice was barely above a whisper. "What's her name?" she asked, her voice dull and flat.

"Kyndee." The name spilled over his lips before he could halt it. Agitated, he pushed to a sitting position and ran his fingers through his hair. He leaned an arm on his raised knee.

Sage sat up and laid her cheek on the back of his shoulder, tracing the latticework of scars with her fingers. Fletcher curved away, always self-conscious about his disfigurement, the ugly visible evidence of his ordeal. He didn't want more questions he couldn't answer.

She embraced him, her chest pressed against his back. "It's all right, Zack. I've known since the first night that while the bruises on your body were healed, the wounds on the inside were still bleeding. You talk in your sleep." She sighed. "Whatever the woman did must have been horrible because she's taken your warm and generous heart and walled it in where no one else can touch it."

Fletcher yanked her around to face him, crimped the narrow shoulders and glared at her. "How do you know I have a heart at all?" His nostrils flared as he snorted and snarled at her. He knew the rasp gave his voice a truculent harshness when he ground out his words. "You don't know anything about me. Unlike you, I'm not in the habit of telling my life's story to anyone who will listen." He shook her. "My God, Sage, you don't even know if Zachary is my real name!"

The troubled and shocked expression on her face constrained him. In a heartbeat he realized he was hurting her with his steel grip, that he had wounded her deeply with his brutal words. He clamped his eyes and shook his head. What the devil am I doing? Contrite and mortified by his roughness he swept her into his arms, crushing her to him, trying to undo his cruelty.

"I'm sorry, Sage; I'm so sorry," he whispered with his face in her hair. He rocked her when a single tear dropped onto his arm and he felt her uneven breathing while he held her close. He was truly a beast. "I'm a boorish brute, and you'll soon be well rid of me. Don't cry; please don't cry. For me you've been like a wondrous wildflower among brushwood. You made me realize that I still have human feelings left inside me. That scares me, don't you see? It makes me doubt myself and what I have to do or I'll go mad." A groan came from deep within him. "It was easier when I didn't care. Don't cry, sweet; I never want to make you cry."

Sage withdrew from him. "I'm not crying!" She sniffed and wiped her hands over her eyes. "As I told you before, I'm not a helpless female in need of rescue. I was fine before you came, and I'll be fine after you leave."

Fletcher cupped her face and kissed her hard. He leaned his forehead into hers. "I know you will. That's one of the things I adore about you." Wetting his lips, he devoured her lovely face with his eyes. "God—I'm going to miss you."

"And I you." With an anguished cry, she wrapped her arms around his neck and hugged him to her.

Moments later, she whispered in his ear. "Zack?"

"Yes, sweet?"

"Tell me your real name."

He only hugged her tighter. "I can't."

Sage sat back, and her brows rose. "You can't or you won't?"

How could he tell her who he was when he wasn't entirely sure himself? His mind was still muddled. Everyday of the last months had brought new revelations and new questions. He knew a name, that was all, and a lifetime of long ago. But the world had changed; he had changed. Quite possibly Fletcher Stedman belonged to a world which no longer existed. His dead years still contained dark, blank spaces that tortured and worried him. Could he tell her that the man before her, the man she held, the man whose hair her fingers entwined, contemplated murder with his every waking breath?

Taking her face between his palms, he gazed into her eyes as sincerely as he knew how, hoping his eyes would tell her what he could not. "I can't."

"All right," she whispered, never breaking the eye contact that pinned her. She glided her hand over the scars of his chest, sending shivers through him. "But don't ever think I don't know the real you—here inside. Call yourself by whatever name you want. It won't change what's here, even though you have it buried under layers of fear and hate." She kissed him. "I'm here, Zack. Love me. Let's not waste what little time we have left together." She kissed him again. "Love me so I can remember you when you're gone."

Sage. She knew he wasn't Zachary Brown and wanted him, even nameless. Perhaps in her innocence she saw some goodness remaining in him that he had yet to see himself. In her presence, he wished that it were true, that he'd not been entirely consumed by the vengeful monster. A foreign sweetness surged through him, soothing the wounds and tempering the hate.

In a volcanic turmoil, he could no longer fight against the walls of his restraint. With her heady invitation came an onslaught of desire and his body won the tumultuous battle. He gathered her in his arms and pulled her to the pillows. He buried his face in the hollow of her throat as his fingertips touched her temple, folded themselves in her tresses, caressed her shoulder, then slid down her back to rest in the curve of her spine. He pressed her to him, feeling her breasts through the thin wrapper.

"Sweet Sage, you are so lovely," he murmured. The fluttering pulse in her neck tingled under his hand as he held her captive in his embrace.

For the moment he released the cold knots of vengeance, allowing her warmth to be his driving force. The others and their final retribution could wait. Tonight he would find release in this willing female. Tonight he would give in to the desires he had held in check for so long.

Smoothing the hair on both sides of her head, he kissed her with gnawing hunger. Feeling her soft curves and the light touch of her fingertips on his back and along his thighs made him shiver. His need was great but he didn't want to hurt or frighten her—not this exquisite creature beneath him who had touched him and helped him in ways she'd never know or even understand.

She cried his name, "Zachary," and a shudder coursed through him.

Please no, not now...not that name, that hated name.

Zachary, who would be leaving soon; Zachary, who had no emotion but hate; Zachary, who had a mission that could not be ignored or forgotten.

He raised from her and balanced himself on his forearms.

She must have sensed his reluctance because she wrinkled her brow and rose to kiss him.

"I can feel something's wrong? What is it? Tell me."

With a groan and a harsh sigh of resignation, he slid away and lay on his side. He closed his eyes and tried to take deep breaths, tried to slow down the blood racing through his body and into the throbbing swollen part of him that would find no luxurious release this night.

"It's her, isn't it?" asked Sage in a velvet tone, brushing the hair of his chest.

At the touch of her fingertips, Fletcher inhaled sharply and drew his chest muscles inward. "Don't," he murmured as gently as he could through clenched teeth. His body trembled, struggling with his desire. "Don't touch me yet, not yet."

"It's Kyndee, isn't it?"

It took several minutes for Fletcher to find his voice again. He opened his eyes. "No, it's you."

He saw hurt and humiliation on her face just before she turned on her side away from him. "I'm sorry I've displeased you," she muttered, "but I've never..." Her words drifted to a whisper and faded away.

"We both know I'm fully aware that you've never—" He curled his arm around her and pulled her near to him. Her back to his chest, he drew in his knees behind hers and surrounded her, enfolded her with his body, his newly won control threatening to vanish as he pressed close to her. He teased the errant chestnut strands from her face before he laid his cheek against her hair.

"Sweet Sage, it's the ‘never’ that is the exact reason why I cannot."

She turned in his embrace to face him. With her verdant eyes following its movement, she ran her forefinger along his eyebrow, around his eye and lashes, down the side of his nose, and along his lips. She shook her head and bit her bottom lip. "I don't understand."

Staring into those round, trusting innocent eyes helped to cool his renewed ardor. Suddenly feeling very old and used, he sighed. "No, maybe you don't; I'm certain I don't. But perhaps if I try to explain it to you, it will make sense to me, too."

Why did he not take her? God knew she was willing enough, tempting and beautiful enough. Why did he hesitate and torture himself unbearably? Was it because as Zachary Brown he had always avoided innocents, preferring women who knew what they were about and used their wiles for an evening, an afternoon, or an hour in which to pleasure him. Had he indeed developed the 'affliction' she asked him about? The contraction of his gut and the tight throbbing, almost painful sensation between his thighs assured him that was certainly not the case. Was it because he feared she might be his undoing: allowing her into his heart, allowing any emotion but hate might cause him to turn away from the confrontation necessary to avenge the crime against him, might weaken the wall he had erected around himself in order to survive?

No, he realized as he lost himself in her trusting eyes. It was nothing so complicated. The clarity of the answer stilled his body and his mind. When Sage had placed her innocence in his hands, he saw a fantasy of emerald eyes from long ago. Now that he knew his true name, Fletcher Stedman could not treat her as the impassive, heartless Zachary Brown had treated the other nameless faces.

He kissed her forehead and hugged her. "Sage, I cannot take what is yours to surrender but is not mine to savor. I cannot lie to you. Don't misunderstand me. I yearn to bury myself in you, to feel your legs wrapped around my back, to pleasure us both as I know I have the power to do. But I'm leaving soon. To lie to you, to speak of love and promise you I'll be back—such mendacity goes against me. To seize your precious gift and ride away, to leave you used and possibly with child, would destroy your dreams and cause you to remember me with malice. That I couldn't bear for I will always remember you with great tenderness."

Sage opened her mouth to speak but he silenced her with his fingertips.

"Shhh. Let me finish before I lose the last vestige of sanity and change my mind." He rested on his elbow, fondling her with his eyes.

"When I arrived in this town, my heart was filled with nothing but vengeance. I intended to stay the night and leave. But somewhere in that pounding part of me you found the smallest fragment of the man I once was. As hard as I tried to prevent it, it is into that part you sank your claws and, perhaps unknowingly, tore with the ferocity of a lioness. In the time I was with you, vengeance leaked from the tear, leaving room for you to sneak in and allow your gentleness to feast on me."

He smiled at her and shook his head. "No, Sage, I cannot accept your beautiful gift, although God knows I want to. Treasure it; for it belongs to the man who can love you with his whole heart, not just a piece of it."

Tears were in her eyes but without a word, the lovely woman in his arms caressed his cheek with the back of her fingers. He caught her hand and pressed her palm to his lips. Then he cradled her against him, and they burrowed into the pillows.

Pretty words for a pretty woman. He meant them and regretted them as he lay next to her downy softness. But in that torn fragment of his heart, he was proud of himself for having found the courage to say them. Drinking in the clean scent of her hair, he smiled, held her closer and slept.