Riding the Thunder (39 page)

Jago spoke with such conviction, depression, that it slowed her spiraling temper. His statement shook her, simply because she believed him. He stared at her with true misery. Silly man wasn't just guilty. He was in pain, a pain so crippling that it reached into her, nearly made her forget her anger. Nearly.

“This last year, every night I'd get up, restless, couldn't sleep. I'd go to the refrigerator, open it and stand looking inside. I wasn't hungry, yet I repeated this over and over. I didn't need food. I needed love. I needed you. That first night after we met, all the nocturnal wandering stopped.” He walked to the patio door and stood, watching the falling snow.“Until you, I never understood I wasn't happy. When I found you, I found my other half—what was missing.”

“Then why risk it all—for what? Your brothers and you are playing some high stakes game with my family's holdings? I gather from this,”—she held up the letter—“that your brothers are behind a hostile takeover of anything
with the name Montgomerie attached. My father and brother are capable of defending against a bunch of modern day pirates. What I do care about, my life here—”

“I know that. Sometimes forces push us against our will. Yes, I should've told you, only for once in my bloody life I played the coward. I reached out and held on to you like a lifeline. I was lost, no meaning to my existence. Don't you see? I'm another of your lost souls finding heaven at The Windmill. When you're that low and salvation comes along, and when you comprehend if you lose it there won't be anything left worth living for, you tend to get scared. Bloody scared. Each time I intended to tell you some interruption popped up and, like a condemned man, I welcomed the excuses.” He braced his hand high on the doorframe, and leaned against it. The hypnotic eyes watched her reflection in the mirrored glass. “Yeah, I was a coward, but I haven't changed. You love me. Not my name.”

“Oh!” she gasped, feeling more than panic rise in her throat.

He rushed to her. “What's wrong?”

Asha shoved him away. “Get back, unless you want me to barf all over you.”

Not waiting to see what he'd do, she dashed into the bathroom and slammed the door, locking it. She barely got the commode lid up before her stomach let go. Boy, did it let go! Weak from retching, she slumped against the hamper. Clint materialized and crawled into her lap to comfort her. He sniffed her sour breath and wrinkled his nose.

“You ought to try it from my side.” She jumped when Jago hammered on the door.

“Asha, are you all right?” He pounded again.

She glared at the locked door. “Go away. I really don't want to see you right now, Mr. Mershan.” Her body was sending signals it was just getting wound up. “Stand back, round two is coming, Clint.”

Jago yelled, cajoled and begged, though she did her best to tune him out. After tossing the rest of her cookies, all she
wanted was a cool rag and to wash the horrid taste from her mouth, not to deal with a man named Mershan.

“Asha, open the damn door. Now.”

“Go to hell. I want to die,” she moaned, and rolled onto her side. Clint and she both flinched at the loud crash, as the door slammed against the wall. “Mr. Macho just kicked in the door, Clint. Oh, how thrilling.”

Jago saw her on the floor, panicked and rushed to her. He tried to get her to sit up, but damn it, she didn't
want
to sit. The cat was hopping all over the place, though she wasn't sure if he was playing a game or trying to defend her. She didn't care. Rather, she wished both of them would leave her alone with her misery.

“Go away and let me die,” she moaned.

Terrified, Jago pushed her hair back from her face. “Have you taken something, Asha?”

“I'd belt you for asking that, but I'm too tired. It's a sour stomach. Finding the man you love has been lying to you for months will do that.”

“Are you going to puke more?” he asked softly.

She wanted to curl up into a ball and ignore him and the cat. “I just want to sleep . . . as soon as I rinse my mouth.”

With his aid, she stood and hobbled to the sink. She washed her mouth out with water and then did a quick swish with Listermint. Tenderly, Jago helped her undress and into a comfortable nightgown; sliding under the cool sheets felt like paradise. He rushed about, doing chores for several minutes, though she closed her eyelids and ignored him. Or pretended to.

“Here, drink this.”

She opened her eyes and looked up at him. He'd changed out of his clothes and just wore sweatpants. Holding out a cup, he offered a concerned smile.

“What's this?”

“Warm lemonade and honey. It cuts the aftertaste and soothes the throat.”

She took the drink and sipped, surprised by how good it was. “Thank you.”

“I didn't mean to make you sick.”

Asha concentrated on the warm drink and tried not to take notice of his kindness. “I don't want to talk about it.”

“Fine. Then you will listen to me talk. Like how dirt poor I grew up.”

That caught her off guard. “Poor?”

“Yes. So poor I doubt you could comprehend it. When I was little more than a baby my father put a gun to his head and killed himself.”

The cup rattled against the saucer. She saw in his eyes that he was serious. “How horrible.”

“I was too young to remember, only that incident formed my whole life—maybe nearly destroyed it, and that of my brothers.” Jago sat on the edge of the bed and took the saucer from her hands. “I don't want you to say anything, but I want to tell you about his death. It happened a long time ago; however it's still driving the Mershan brothers. You think I don't have the right to ask you to hear me out after lying to you, but in a strange way I do have that right and I am claiming it. You see, the reason my father committed suicide was because he was ruined by your grandfather.”

“My grandfather?”

He gave a small nod. “So, do we talk?”

She pressed her lips together to keep from crying; this time it was hormonal. She looked at him. “We talk.”

And they did. Jago turned out the lights and slid into the bed and cradled her—and talked. For hours. He cried when he told how his mother had died in November, how she'd been sick most of her life and had never received the proper medical care until it was too late. How she didn't have an education to support herself and three small sons. How she'd returned to her family's farm in Ireland after Michael Mershan's death. The details of the too-risky deal.

“Sean used lands he didn't own as collateral to back
chancy ventures. Emerald mines in South America, oil in the Middle East. When one venture paid off, that windfall backed another, each bonanza bankrolling the next—an empire built with a house of cards. Everything turned to gold for Midas Montgomerie. He pulled my father into his schemes, used him to lure others into them. Only, Midas Montgomerie's luck turned. Rebels took over the mines; Arabs seized oil wells; and coalmines in Wales were closed due to bad working conditions. Dozens of investments went sour.”

A wave of nausea hit Asha, leaving her certain she didn't want to hear this.

“My father, poor fool, made a lot of money through Sean's early investments. Sean convinced him to entice his friends and associates into the spiraling game. A pyramid. Everyone tossed in their life savings, borrowed to get more shares. When things crumbled, my father believed all was protected because of Sean's collateral.”

Asha shivered. “Sean never owned Falgannon. Colford was held in trust for my father until he inherited. The farm in Kentucky was purchased by my father for my mother.”

“Precisely what my father discovered after the house of cards collapsed. The bank lost, the investors lost, my father lost . . .” He gave her a small squeeze, pressing her tightly against his chest. “The one who lost most of all is Desmond. He's consumed with the need to set things right for our mother. He's in love with B.A. I'm hoping she will be his salvation—as you are mine.”

Asha resented that he had lied. Still, she ached for him. His words reached into her.

“My father's death hit Des the hardest. Des was seven. He saw my father pull the trigger. I'm sure any psychiatrist would tell you Des should've received treatment for the trauma; the act was simply too much for a child to witness and not be scarred. It's devouring him now, Asha. Mother's death only amplified the pressure. Des became our father,
the only father I've ever known. I owe him everything, Asha. I'm the man I am today because of Des.”

He spoke next of how his mother returned to Ireland after Michael Mershan's death, living with her father, an alcoholic. They'd resided in antiquated conditions, suffered emotional abuse at his hands until he died in a rage one night. Shortly thereafter, barely ten-years-old, Des started shouldering the burden of protecting their mother and keeping his brothers safe.

“An American writer took pity on our situation, sponsored us to come to the States. She was a nice lady. Then she was killed in a hit-and-run accident. My mum panicked, afraid they would send us back to Ireland. She took us and ran. And kept running. Anytime someone asked too many questions, she'd pack up our meager belongings and move to another town, another state. She took jobs that barely paid minimum wage, only thing she could get. Worked herself to the bone.”

As he talked, Jago cried. Asha cried with him. How could she not? His pain washed through her. All the hurt, the anguish, his mother's fear and illness—Desmond's sacrifices to make sure his brothers were safe. She also began to comprehend Jago's reticence in revealing his deception. He would've been betraying Des, whom he loved like a father. She understood it all so clearly now. Understood, but had no idea how to deal with it.

All through the night he spoke of these things. And she simply held him.

In the morning, Asha was beside herself. Jago clearly had reasons for what he did, and they were not selfish, but her emotions were too out of control to be rational. She alternated between crying jags over what he and his family had gone through and wanting to belt him.

She had to get away. There was no way she could sort out her emotions and think straight. Also, she had the urge
to fly to her twin's side. Trevelyn was at Colford and involved with Raven. Dealing with Jago was hard enough for her, but when she thought of Trev deceiving her sister, Asha saw red and wanted to murder someone—preferably with the last name of Mershan.

She stood by the glass doors, watching the gray morning, and trying to calm her mood. It wasn't working. She kept telling herself that her sisters, Paganne, Katlynne and Britt, were at Colford to support Raven. LynneAnne was on Falgannon with B.A.

“Only I'm alone, no sister to lean on,” she said wistfully.

She picked up the phone to call Raven, then hung up. This wasn't something you broke to your sister on a trunk call. Wiggling her fingers, trying to decide, she finally picked it up and rang Colford Hall, hoping to reach Kat or Britt. Instead, a maid answered saying all her sisters were out, getting ready for a big gala for the Historical Trust.

“Blast.” Asha hung up and frowned toward the closet, knowing her suitcase was at the bottom. It was silly, but she wanted to go home. Maybe back in England she'd have a buffer so she could think. Being with Jago kept her emotions too volatile. With a few weeks away, her body would adjust to the chemical changes coming from carrying a child.

Jago came out of the bedroom, his eyes filled with concern. “I won't ask for forgiveness. I don't deserve it. But you do understand, don't you, Asha?”

She gave him a small smile, staring at him, drinking in his physical beauty. Loving him. Oh, yes, she understood. Too much.

She nodded. “Please don't worry. Things will sort themselves out.”

“How about taking today off and we go to the river house? It's always so peaceful there. We can talk more,” he suggested hopefully.

“Sounds like just the ticket,” she lied.

“Good. Let me shower and then we can be on our way.”

Jago hesitated, as if not sure she was all right. Then he gave a nod and entered the bathroom, closing the door. Shortly afterward, the shower started.

Heart breaking, she crossed the room and picked up his cell phone, wallet and key ring, then reached for her purse. She wouldn't take time to pack; she was heading straight to England and Raven.

Clint staring up at her was almost her undoing. She cupped his sweet face, looking into his orange eyes. “You be a good lad. Delbert, Oo-it and Sam will feed you.” On impulse she leaned down and kissed him between the ears. “Everything will be all right, so don't you worry.” She just wished she believed that.

After one last look at Clint, she closed the patio door and rushed to her car. The stupid antique Triumph TR 6 cranked and whined and belched, refusing to start. She ground the starter once, making a horrid noise and was afraid she flooded it. She glanced to the bungalow, fearful. Sure enough, the door jerked open and Jago rushed out in just his gray sweatpants.

“Come on, come on, you piece of British Leyland junk,” she begged and cursed in the same breath.

Jago paused and put his hands on his hips. His black hair wet, his chest beaded with water from the shower he hadn't had time to towel off, the blasted man looked so damn sexy. She loved him more than life, but if he tried to stop her she might run him down.

The motor finally caught and she released the clutch and eased forward. He'd been content to stand and glare at her while the starter was grinding away, only now it was running, so he moved to block her. Rushing up, he put both hands on the hood and made it clear he wasn't getting out of the way. She smiled, seeing his car keys, cell phone and his wallet sitting on the seat by her pocketbook.

“Hmm . . . might as well give him something in return.”