Fair Is the Rose (46 page)

She bit back a smile and stepped to the saddlebags.

He closed the door, plunging the windowless cabin into night, the only illumination the fire dancing at the hearth.

They were alone.
Utterly, completely alone.
Adam and Eve in a snowy paradise.
For once she didn't have to worry about the outside world intruding; there was no outside world here, just the fire, the darkness, him.

He touched her hair first. His hand ran down its length, as if paying homage to a deity. He hadn't let her pin it up before they left. He'd said he liked it down and wild. She didn't bother to fight him about it.

He bent to kiss her. He tasted good. She blushed, recalling how shameless she'd been the last time they'd made love. His power over her disturbed her.

He pressed his lips against her hair. His arm crossed her chest, holding her back against him. "You love me, Christal," he whispered.
A statement, not a question.

She met his gaze, never knowing all the hurt she showed in her eyes. "I could tell you I don't."

"But you do."

She looked away, unable to take his honesty. It left her unprotected.

"C'mon. Let's go to bed."

She shivered and hugged her arms. Though she had done everything imaginable with this man in bed, it still filled her with reluctance. There was something not right about it. No matter how wild Wyoming had made her, the need for marriage was still ingrained in her.

Sensing her hesitation, Cain whispered in her ear, "I know we're different, Christal. I see that every time you speak, every time you lift that chin in defiance. I know you come from a good background—rich, even—I can see the wealth in the picture of you and your sister, and in your manners. But for some reason, a reason I may never know, all that wealth's gone. Holding on to your rich girl's morality won't bring it back."

"And you grew up with no morals? No wonder Georgia lost the war." She turned away from him, unwilling to show him the contrition in her eyes. When would she quit flailing him with the war every time they argued? She hated herself when she did that, but he bull's-eyed her emotional target every time; he left her so defenseless, she resorted to cowards' tactics.

"You may think I'm poor white trash, but I'm not the one running." He didn't bother to hide the bitterness in his voice.

She felt the stab, as if he'd just sunk a knife into her heart. They were even.

He caressed her cheek. Slowly he took her into his arms, slowly she acquiesced.

"We're here not to think about this," he said quietly.

"It's there. How can we not think about it? Fight about it?"

He laughed. "My parents fought like the devil. In fact, I don't remember a day when they didn't have a knockdown-drag-out fight. My ma one time beaned my pa on the head with a frypan, and he didn't wake up for two whole days."

She looked at him in horror. Not in her wildest imaginings could she picture her parents doing such a thing.

His mouth twisted in a wry grin. "I know that's a bit out of the realm of your experience, but I'll tell you this: when they made up, they sent me and my brothers packing.
Sometimes all day.
I can only guess what they did in all those hours in the bedroom. I can still hear them laughing and carryin' on." He took her face in his large hands. "You know, my ma must have known Pa was gone. She just gave up."

The sorrow in his voice moved her. It made her think of her own parents. They had died together and she took comfort in knowing they would have wanted it that way.

He took her hand to lead her to the bed, but still she paused.

"What's stopping you? Don't you like it? I want you to like it."

She turned away. "You know I like it. I like it too much. I can hardly keep up with you."

"You can. And you did. And you will."

Her gaze locked with his. In some ways he might claim to be a simple Georgia boy, but the man who looked at her now was hardened and schooled by bloody battle. He knew what he wanted; he saw no point in wasting time. The thought left her breathless, frightened, and unaccountably intrigued.

She felt the comforting circle of his arms, and she was afraid of getting used to their protection, when his love for her hung by a silken thread, one that could snap the second he saw the wanted poster.

"The mattress is dirty," she whispered, feeling the hot trail of his lips down her vulnerable neck.

It was. The soiled ticking was stuffed with dried grasses that poked through the worn material. There were no blankets and no sheets.

Undaunted, he tossed his blue greatcoat over the mattress, covering it. Slowly he lowered her down, wrapping her in the intimacy of his warmth that lingered in the coat. They made love slowly, believing that the world would never intrude upon the one that they were forging. Afterward, lying safe in his arms, she closed her eyes and began to dream.

Her lover was Cain. But he was no longer a renegade or sheriff. In her dream he was a gentleman caller, arriving at the doorstep of the Van Alen brownstone on Washington Square. He wore a black coat, an equally restrained cravat, and no hat. Her mother didn't quite approve.

"He's not quite tame," her mother told her, eyeing Cain at the open door as if he couldn't see or hear her. Christal could only agree. Nonetheless she invited him inside, thinking that black suited him, it suited his moods, and his eyes, pale like ice.

He had a drink with her father in the library while she and her mother took their cordials in the parlor. Not once, during her dream, did she think this odd. In life she had never had a beau come to call, she had been too young. Even so, it was not difficult to imagine how it would be choreographed.

Father, naturally, liked her beau. His laughter boomed through the oak pocket doors, encouraging her. Cain was a man other men either liked and respected, or feared. There was no in-between.

"Will I have his sons, Mother, and will they be strong and wild and handsome as he?" she asked, the nonsensical nature of dreams giving her freedom to ask questions she never would have dared ask in real life.

"We always wanted sons in addition to you and your sister. Yes, my dear little Christal, you must have Macaulay's sons." Her mother patted her hand. Her angelic smile beamed upon her. Then she returned to her needlework.

"But will he ever love me, Mother, as Father loves you?" Even she could hear the sorrow in her voice.

"Of course, of course, or we won't let him marry you. How foolish you are, child." Her mother patted her hand again. Christal turned back to her own needlework, something she was never very good at. Alana was the artist with her needle, not she.

"See here!" Suddenly her father's voice boomed out, angry and tinged with fear. "I said see here, my good man! You can't do that to this fine fellow! He's going to marry my daughter!"

Her mother leapt from her cushion by the fireplace and slid open the pocket doors. A scream curdled in her mother's throat, sending icy shivers down Christal's spine.

Slowly, as if fear made her aged and gouty, Christal shoved aside the needlepoint frame and rose to her feet. Somehow, knowing what she was going to encounter, she reluctantly walked to the library entrance.

Didier had arrived.

The library was cast in darkness, the only light from the fireplace illuminating her uncle. He wore a blue coat and a paisley silk vest that elegantly covered his expanding paunch. Seeing him now, she could understand how her aunt could have been attracted to him. Baldwin Didier was a handsome man, regal in his Vandyke beard, arresting, with a cold, piercing gaze much like Cain's. But in Didier's eyes there was no soul that cried out for salvation, no boy who needed warmth and love, as she had seen, rarely, in Cain's. When she looked deep into Didier's eyes there was only an icy void from which there was no return.

She spun
around,
clawing at the shadows to see her father, to find help, but her father was gone, disappeared into blackness, with her mother.

Then the shadows parted. And she saw what had made her mother scream.

Macaulay was gagged and blindfolded, a noose around his neck with Didier poised to kick the stool from beneath his feet.

"You've been a bad girl, Christal. . . . How will you take your punishment?" Didier asked, his blue eyes shooting chills down her spine.

"How—how have I been bad?" she choked out, her own gaze glued to Cain, who stood motionless on the stool.

"Perhaps if you'd been a better child I wouldn't have killed your mother and father. Perhaps if you had come into their bedroom sooner, you might have interrupted me, kept me from doing away with them. What have you to say for yourself, young lady?"

"How was I to know you were going to kill them? I awakened. I heard a noise and I came. I wish I could have saved them. I loved them." Her voice was harsh with longing and despair. "I beg of you, don't take Macaulay too. I beg of you. He's all I have now."

"What do I care?" Didier placed his spit-polished shoe on the top rung of the stool, pretending to push it away. "You've been a bad girl, Christabel Van Alen. You could have saved your parents, but you didn't. You didn't come in time. You don't deserve this man. I'm taking him away."

"Don't! I beg of you! I
beg of you!"

She screamed. The blackness around her rushed in.

Didier pushed away the stool.

"Christal . . . Christal . . ." The voice cut through her crying, a rough, deep murmur that made her weep.

"Don't take him away. I beg of you!"

"It's only a nightmare. Don't be frightened."

She fought with the greatcoat that was wrapped tight around her. Struggling, she opened her eyes and sat up in the cabin's crude bed, clutching at Macaulay as if he were still the outlaw ready to be taken away in chains.

"Don't let him take you away! I'm sorry! Oh, God, I wish I'd gotten there sooner!" She gasped for breath. Tears poured down her cheeks.

"You've had a nightmare. That's all it is, girl. Nothing's going to hurt you. I swear it." Macaulay brushed away the hair that clung to her sweaty brow. "You see? You're here with me. You're safe. No one's going to take me away."