Читать книгу The Mistress - Tiffany Reisz, Tiffany Reisz - Страница 21

For what felt like an hour, Nora paced the room with the green curtains. They hadn’t handcuffed her, hadn’t gagged or bound her; they’d simply left her to walk unencumbered. She tried the window first and found it locked and barred. She’d need a blowtorch to get out that way. The door seemed too dangerous. Anyone could be standing behind it with a gun waiting to shoot on sight. Still, if no one came back for her in another hour or two, she’d give it a try. Better to die on her feet than huddled in a corner crying.

She kept moving about the room, trying not to give in to panic. Where was she? She felt like she should know. The furniture was elegant but old and dated. She’d guess someone had decorated the house in the 1960s and no one had bothered updating the decor since then. It gave the room an eerie feel, like she’d fallen into another time. Or that time stopped in this room. When she paced she pushed against old stale air that had probably wasted away in this room as long as the furniture had.

What the fuck was happening? She thought she knew everything about Søren’s marriage to Marie-Laure. Thirty years ago, Søren had brought Marie-Laure from Paris to visit Kingsley in lieu of the Je t’aime that she knew Kingsley had longed to hear. Søren told her that he’d never considered the possibility of marrying Marie-Laure until he’d seen how happy Kingsley became in her presence, and once he’d thought of marriage, he realized it could be the perfect solution. But Marie-Laure had ignored Søren’s cautions that he would never love her back and she’d fallen head over heels for him. Head over heels … how it began. How Nora thought it had ended. Marie-Laure catching Søren and Kingsley in an intimate moment … Marie-Laure running through the winter woods in shock and grief. She slipped on ice, perhaps—or maybe it hadn’t been a simple slip—and plunged a hundred feet to her death, her body shattering on a rock below. Now she knew it had been a lie. Marie-Laure had learned long before that moment she walked in on Kingsley and Søren that they were lovers. Did she think she’d done them a favor? She would die and leave Søren a widower, and he and Kingsley would fall into each other’s arms and be happy together forever?

I gave them my death as a gift … and now I’m taking my gift back.

Nora stopped her caged pacing long enough to glance out the window again and peer between the bars. The stars danced high in the night sky. What time was it? How long had she been here? She wore the same clothes she’d had on in the stables with Wesley back in Kentucky. She still had on her black snakeskin cowboy boots she’d worn riding. Still had on …

Nora glanced down at her left hand. On the ring finger sat a diamond that outshone the stars in the sky outside the window.

“Wes …” she whispered, staring at the ring. God, poor Wesley. He must be out of his mind with panic now. What had he done? She prayed he hadn’t called the police. Getting the police involved would only make things worse. This woman might be crazy but she was dangerously crazy. She had to be intelligent to fake her death and make a life for herself for thirty years. If Marie-Laure wanted revenge on Søren it would be easy enough—kill Nora. She knew Søren would rather see his own heart cut out than allow anything to happen to her. If the sirens started screaming, it would be quick work to slit her throat and disappear back into whatever secret hellhole Marie-Laure had been hiding for the past thirty years.

Footsteps in the hallway alerted her she had perhaps only a few more seconds alone. At one end of the library stood a fireplace, and by the fireplace hung a row of antique bronze fireplace tools, including a poker. She felt a strange something when she picked it up. The heft of it surprised her. There was a weightiness to it greater even than its actual mass. She sensed history in it and didn’t understand why. Didn’t matter. It was the same length as a riding crop and she gripped it just the same. Kingsley Edge had been the first man to put a riding crop in her hand. A riding crop used properly merely stung like fire when applied to the body but it sure as fuck could do a lot of damage if used improperly. Kingsley’s number-one word of warning to her when he gave her the first of her little red riding crops—never go near the face, never go near the eyes. I met a boy in India who’d been blinded when a rich man hit him across the eyes with a riding crop. Don’t get me sued, chérie.

The door started to open. Nora strode toward it.

A man stepped in the rom.

Nora aimed for the eyes.

From the look on his face, he’d been expecting an attack, but not of this variety. He caught the brass bar an inch from his skull and with his other hand grasped Nora by the wrist and slammed her into the floor. She hit hard and the air rushed from her lungs.

“You should have seen that coming, Andrei,” came Marie-Laure’s mocking tone from above her. Nora put up a struggle but gave up when the man, Andrei, put his full weight into the knee holding her down.

“I saw it coming. Thought she’d go for the groin,” the man said.

“I only do CBT when paid,” Nora grunted through gritted teeth. She could hardly breathe with this Andrei bastard on her back. The other guy, Damon, probably weighed one-fifty wet. This guy weighed two tons dry.

“CBT?” Marie-Laure repeated.

“Cock and ball torture.”

A trilling laugh filled the room and Nora saw Marie-Laure floating down to the floor in a sea of diaphanous black satin.

“You’re delightful.” Marie-Laure pushed a stray strand of black hair off Nora’s face. “This is good. I’m having so much fun right now. I have my husband dancing for me. I danced for him thirty years ago. Now it’s his turn.”

“What do you want with Søren?”

“Only to play awhile.” Marie-Laure took another lock of Nora’s hair in her hand and twirled it girlishly around her finger. “I’m being so silly with him. I burned his bed. And Damon, he killed one of my brother’s dogs. He even wrote a message in blood.” Marie-Laure giggled like a schoolgirl. “It’s ridiculous. I even gave him until noon on Friday to make up his mind about us. High noon. I’ve seen too many movies, haven’t I?”

“And not enough therapists.”

The dig didn’t seem to make any impact. Marie-Laure kept grinning.

“Pull her up,” she said, nodding at Andrei. The man grabbed Nora by the upper arms and dragged her to her feet. “You’re disgusting.” Marie-Laure looked Nora up and down. “And you smell.”

“I’m doing the French thing. I’m down to one shower a week.”

“Is pissing yourself a French thing?” Marie-Laure batted her eyelashes at Nora and wrinkled her nose like a little girl.

“Your fault for knocking me out. I’ll take a shower if you’ll let me. I have a nice shower back at my house. I can find my own way there. I’ll see myself out.”

Wanting to test the waters, Nora took a step forward and Andrei swiftly and efficiently pushed her into the wall. He did a good job with it—pushed hard enough to make a point, not so hard she hurt herself. Nice technique.

“You promised to be my houseguest, remember?” Marie-Laure reminded her. “The little girl is on her way to my brother’s with her message for my husband. And you’re staying with me. I’m looking forward to it. I don’t spend much time with women. I much prefer the company of men.”

“I don’t have many women friends, either. Less drama, more cock. I get it.”

“You never stop talking, do you?” Marie-Laure tilted her head to the side and studied Nora like she’d encountered some sort of alien species.

Nora replied by saying absolutely nothing.

Marie-Laure nodded. “You’re funny,” she said in an approving tone. “It’s très chère. Is that why my husband loves you? Because you make him laugh?”

“I’m pretty entertaining, but I don’t know if that’s the main reason he loves me.”

“Any theories?” Marie-Laure gave a dismissive shrug that was so very French Nora wanted to slap her.

“None that make sense.”

“That’s what I want to understand.” Marie-Laure looked Nora up and down again. “I want to know … why you? Long ago I thought, peut-être, he could love only another like himself, a man, a boy. I forgave him for not loving me because he couldn’t help it. I even left so he and my brother could be together. But he can love a woman and of all the women in the world—elegant women, intelligent women, women of poise and breeding and loyalty.” At that Marie-Laure glanced down at Nora’s left hand. Nora felt the ring on her finger heavy as deadweight. “So many better women in the world, and he picks you.”

“I know. Nuts, right? If you figure it out, be sure to let me know.”

“We will figure this out, you and I. Come along. You’ll stay with me. But first we have to clean you up. I can hardly look at you. Andrei, bring her, s’il vous plaît.”

Marie-Laure spun around to the door, graceful as the dancer she once was. The man took Nora’s elbow in his stern grip and escorted her to the door.

“Do you mind if I ask where we are?” Nora glanced around the hallway. It all seemed so familiar and yet …

“You don’t know?”

Nora tried not to roll her eyes.

“I know I’ve been here before.”

“Have you? I’m surprised he brought you here. I imagine he comes here as little as possible.”

“Søren brought me here?” As she said the words, Nora noticed a painting hanging in the hallway. A young girl of about eight in a white dress sat in a rocking chair, a small stuffed horse clenched in her hand. The artist had painted a smile on the girl’s face but left her violet eyes empty of hope and happiness.

Nora had seen those eyes before.

“Elizabeth …” she whispered, meeting the painted child’s broken gaze. “We’re in Elizabeth’s house?” Once Nora made the connection, the memories of her one trip here came flooding back. Søren’s father’s funeral. Nora had been only seventeen years old. Ostensibly he’d brought her to the funeral for the sake of Claire, his half sister, who was about her age. But Nora knew better even then. Something had happened in this house, something bad, something Søren wanted to tell her but had been waiting for the right time. When his father was dead and buried six feet under, that had been the right time.

The fireplace poker … now she understood why it had felt like a memory in her hand. An eleven-year-year-old Søren had wielded it against his own father in that room to stop him from raping Elizabeth. And Elizabeth had wielded it herself to stop her father from killing Søren.

“Where’s Elizabeth?” Nora demanded. “And Andrew?”

“Gone.” Marie-Laure waved her hand dismissively. “My husband apparently told her to leave the house and take her sons with her. Too bad. I would have liked to have met my sister-in-law at last.”

“Sons?” Nora caught a glimpse of a family photograph at the end of the hallway. Elizabeth, who was about Marie-Laure’s age, stood under a tree with her son Andrew at her side and a much younger boy in her arms.

“Oh, oui. She adopted another son three years ago. His name is Nathan. You didn’t know?”

Nora shook her head. Three years ago … Back then she did everything she could to stay out of Søren’s life. She knew if she stayed one second too long in his world, she’d never leave it again. Or she thought she’d never leave again if she went back. She thought Søren would never have let her. But he had and now she’d ended up here with his maniac dead wife. Never before had she more longed to be chained up to his bed with nowhere to go. Not for sex this time but for safety.

“I didn’t know. He doesn’t talk about Elizabeth much.”

“Never thought such a brave man would be so scared of his sister,” Marie-Laure said in a tone so taunting that Nora briefly considered trying her luck on a double murder/escape attempt.

“Not scared of his sister. Scarred by his sister. There’s a difference.”

“Scarred? Perhaps. Kingsley told me about Søren and Elizabeth … what they did together as children. He thought it would convince me that I’d married a man too scarred to love. I believed it for a day or two, wanted to believe it. But …”

“But what?” Nora asked, not sure she wanted the answer. Still it seemed expected of her to ask so she decided to play along for the time being.

“Damaged, my brother called my husband. Broken. Lies, obviously. He wasn’t broken. He was stronger than anyone I’d ever met. So I thought perhaps he was too strong to love me. Love makes one weak, makes one vulnerable. Perhaps he didn’t love me because he would not allow himself to be so weak. But he was weak.”

“Søren is not weak. Not now. Not ever.”

“Is that so? Let me show you something.”

Marie-Laure continued down the hall and Nora followed, the bodyguard Andrei right next to her not speaking but never once taking his eyes off her.

She entered a bedroom, large and opulent. One of the nicer guest rooms, Nora guessed, as it held no photographs or personal items that seemed to belong to the house or its inhabitants. Although Marie-Laure had clearly made herself quite at home. She sat on the cream-colored silk covers and gathered her robe around her like some princess in repose. From the nightstand she picked up a Bible with a white leather cover.

“One of the priests at the school gave me this as a wedding gift,” Marie-Laure said, caressing the engraved words on the front. “Father Henry. He even wrote the date of our marriage inside with our names.”

Marie-Laure smiled wanly at the book. She brought it to her lips and pressed them to the cover before looking at Nora again.

“I had such dreams for us. This Bible was my most precious possession. I loved to open it and see our names inside and our wedding date. I thought he wasn’t touching me because we still barely knew each other. I thought in a week or two, he’ll be more comfortable with me. If I give him enough time, then he’ll make love to me.”

“I’m sorry he couldn’t be what you wanted,” Nora said, mustering a modicum of real sympathy. But not sympathy for Marie-Laure, the kidnapping psycho on the bed. Only sympathy for the girl she’d once been, the girl who’d loved someone who would never love her back.

“No, you aren’t sorry. If he could have loved me back, we still would have been married. And where would you be if he hadn’t been your priest?”

“Dead.” Nora said the word quickly and simply and without hesitation. She said it because it was true. Had Søren never come into her life, she would have followed in her father’s footsteps. She would have followed them right into the grave.

“Dead. So love saved your life. It ended mine.”

If only, Nora thought, but decided to keep that remark to herself. Her cheek might not survive another slapping.

“I wanted to show you proof. You say my husband is not weak. I disagree. This is my Bible. My husband had his own Bible, too. He always kept it with him, and read from it all the time.”

Nora suppressed a mad, tired laugh. All zee time. Wherever Marie-Laure had been living, she hadn’t completely lost the French accent there.

“He is kind of gay for the Bible,” Nora agreed. “So what?”

“So, I watched him one night opening his Bible. He turned to a page and smiled. I’d never seen him smile like that. I know he didn’t see me watching him. I know he wouldn’t have smiled like that for me to see.”

“Smiling at the Bible? Must have been reading Song of Solomon.”

“Not quite.”

Marie-Laure opened her Bible and took out a scrap of paper, yellowed slightly with age.

“He’d stepped out for a moment. Father Henry came for him. Alone with his Bible, I told myself I simply wanted to see if he’d written our names and the date of our marriage in it. He hadn’t, of course. My heart broke but still I turned the pages. Perhaps I’d find some comfort in this book he read so much. I found no comfort, but I did find this.”

She handed the note to Nora. The bodyguard made no move as Nora reached out and took it from her. Carefully she unfolded it and read the words.

You Blond Monster, I’d give my right arm for another night like last night. Knowing you, you’d take it.

At the bottom of the note were two more words.

Je t’aime.

French for I love you.

Kingsley had left Søren a love note in his Bible, and Søren had kept it.

“There were dozens of them,” Marie-Laure continued, the mad smile now gone from her face. “Dozens of notes from my brother to my husband. Most were like that—a mix of hate and love. Some were only love. Some only hate. One note …” Marie-Laure paused to laugh. “One note simply said, ‘Bad news—I’m pregnant. It’s yours.’ My brother and his sense of humor.” She shook her head like an older sister would at the stupid joke of her younger brother.

Nora wanted to laugh, too, at young Kingsley’s thirty-year-old dirty joke, but at the sweetness of it, the silliness, the absolute intimacy implied by the stupid crack that Kingsley felt the need to write down and tuck into Søren’s Bible for him to find and laugh over later. No one finding those notes could have missed the meaning of them. Kingsley and Søren—it wasn’t sex or lust that brought them together again and again. They’d been in love. Nora knew it. She’d known it for years. But Marie-Laure hadn’t known it until that moment.

“I kept this one note as evidence if I needed it,” Marie-Laure said, her voice now cold and emotionless again. “I left the rest where I found them. My husband … I’d never met anyone so intelligent. And yet, love made him so weak and so foolish that he left two dozen pieces of evidence of his affair with my brother inside his Bible. Oh, yes, my husband was weak. Love made him weak. And I realized then love had made me weak, too. I didn’t want to be weak anymore.”

“I know they would have told you in time about them. Kingsley doesn’t like talking about that part of himself. But he would have. Eventually I know he would have.”

“Doesn’t matter. They lied by omission. They used me.”

“Used you? Søren told you that he wasn’t in love with you. You knew that before you married him. He thought you wanted the money, thought you needed it.”

“I wanted him, loved him. And he didn’t love me. My own brother didn’t even love me. Kingsley loved my husband more than his own flesh and blood. My husband loved my brother more than his own wife. I didn’t know what to do. The notes I’d read … the words were burned into my mind. I prayed all the time. Days and days of walking alone in the woods trying to clear my head, trying to find an answer. Instead, I found the hermitage … their hermitage. And I got the miracle I’d prayed for.”

“What miracle?”

“A girl, a runaway, hiding out in the hermitage. Long dark hair, almost my height. It was meant to be. Destiny. She was perfect.”

“Perfect for what?”

“I’d given all the options so much thought. I could tell Christian what was happening. He loved me, worshipped me, thought my husband insane for never touching me. If I’d asked him he would kill my husband for me … kill my brother. But then I thought of those notes and how much they must love each other. And I did love Kingsley even though he’d stolen my husband’s affections from me. So I knew what I would do. I would kill myself.”

“But you didn’t. You killed that poor girl.”

“She had nothing. Nothing at all. She thought she’d find a new life in America. I merely saved her the heartache of disappointment.”

“By murdering her? Yeah, you’re all heart.”

“She was a gift. She made it so easy to disappear. No one even looked for me. I found the road, hitchhiked into Canada, found someone to take care of me … so easy to die.”

“You didn’t die. You murdered someone.”

Marie-Laure only shrugged as she sat her white Bible back on the bedside table.

“Someone had to die for their sins, their lies. But I’m starting to think …”

Her voice trailed off and she tapped her chin.

Fear shivered over Nora’s skin.

“Think what?” she whispered.

“That one death was not enough.”