Samantha James (13 page)

Listening to him, knowing they were gone, Anne felt her chest began to tighten.

Simon continued. “The storm seemed to come out of nowhere. The sky had turned a queer, sickly color. I’d seen such skies before. I’d seen such storms before, terrible storms. I wanted Ellie and the boys out of harm’s way, so we stopped at the carriage house.”

A prickle of foreboding shot through her.

“The wind was buffeting the doors so that it was a struggle to even get Ellie and the boys inside. The minute we were, Jack dashed off to hide beneath a wagon. I was vexed. When I caught him, I scolded him quite severely and told him it wasn’t a game. He was squirming as we went into the attic upstairs—but that was Jack. Never still, never quiet. The attic was dirty and dusty, but there was a table and chairs where we could sit and wait out the storm.

“I’d grabbed the satchel when we left the barouche. The shutters were closed, so it was rather gloomy. I lit a candle and set it on the table, along with the satchel. Just then there was a tremendous crack of thunder. The floor shook beneath our feet. Joshua began to wail. Ellie tried to soothe him. ‘Don’t cry, sweeting,’ she
said. I rumpled his hair and teased him. ‘The angels in heaven are having a bit of a ruckus,’ I said.”

A shadow seemed to slip over Simon then. “I looked over my shoulder. Jack, I saw, had gotten hold of the satchel. He was such a scamp, ever the mischief maker…He sat on the floor, busily plucking out gilt-edged manuscript pages, one after the other. I berated him again, but Jack had a mind of his own. He paid no heed. I started toward him and he finally dropped the satchel. More pages spilled out, all around his feet now. I lost patience then. I—I yelled, I think. I remember Ellie looking at me, startled. And then Jack. He climbed to his feet, grasping the edge of the table to pull himself up. And then—”

Anne sucked in a breath.

“The candle toppled to the floor. Jack stared up at me, his eyes wide. I—I yelled at him again. I’m not sure. And then I saw my manuscript—the pages that were still on the floor—catch fire. I snatched up Jack and stomped out the flames. And then the door burst open. It was Duffy. He’d seen us and came to help with the horses. But the storm had spooked them. They’d bolted.”

Silence descended.

“I still held Jack,” Simon said at last. “Whirling around, I set him in the chair beside Ellie. ‘Do not move,’ I told him sternly—too sternly,
for my mind was on my manuscript pages and I didn’t want him touching them again. I didn’t want them damaged. There was anger in my eyes…my voice…‘Do not move until I get back,’ I said.”

Simon closed his eyes for a moment, as if trying to shut out the past. He stared past Anne’s shoulder, his eyes filled with such haunting despair, she nearly cried out.

“I could see the hurt in his little face. His lip was quivering. ‘Papa,’ he cried, lifting his arms to me. ‘
Papa.
’

“‘Be still!’ I told him. ‘Be still and do not move!’ I—I was shouting, I think.” Simon shoved a hand through his hair. “Jack started to cry. I didn’t care. I was too furious with him.”

Anne’s gaze was riveted to his face. There was an awful tension strung throughout his body. How she longed to touch him, to wrap her arms around him and take away his pain. If only she could!

“Duffy and I gave chase to the top of the hill. Suddenly I stopped. I-I’ll never know quite why. But all at once I had the oddest sensation. It was strange the way it happened…So many images. So many sounds. The charging of the horses, the rush of my breath pounding in my ears, the thunder…I turned and looked at the carriage house. And then I saw it…”

A terrible dread crowded Anne’s throat. She
could only stare at him. Ice ran through her veins. A horrifying sense of inevitability swept over her. No. No, it could not be—

“Something drifted over the roof. I remember staring at it stupidly. I thought it was fog.” His voice had plunged so that she had to strain to hear. “I didn’t realize it was smoke until I saw the flames shooting out the windows.”

The rigorous hold on his emotions began to crumble.

Anne was being given a glimpse into the window of his past. But it hurt to watch him. It hurt to listen. Her eyes were swimming so that she could barely see.

“I ran…ran like a madman, but there was no sign of Ellie and the boys. I’ll never forget…it was then the rain began. Too little. Too late.” His voice grew hoarse. “I couldn’t open the door. I tried, but…I realized then that Ellie and the boys were trapped. Trapped and helpless…”

In the window, Anne could see the reflection of his face. Drawn. Tired. So angry.

So very anguished.

“Oh, that it had been me rather than them!” He slapped a hand against the wall next to the window. “I finally kicked the door open…But I couldn’t see. There was so much smoke, and then something struck me. Part of the ceiling, I think. It knocked me down, but I got up. I kept shouting. Shouting for Ellie. For Joshua. For
Jack.” Facing Anne again, he took a deep, jagged breath. “I swear I could hear them. I swear I could! But—I couldn’t reach them. I couldn’t save them.”

His expression nearly rent her heart in two. His torment lay mired in every word.

“I’ll never forgive myself. I failed them. Ellie and Joshua. And Jack. Oh, God, Jack…I’ll never forget…The last time I saw him, he was crying. Holding out his hands to me. Christ, I was so harsh. I made him cry. I made my boy cry. And Jack never cried. He never cried…”

There was a heartrending silence. And then he whispered:

“If only I’d never lit the candle…
If only I’d never lit the candle.
”

The muscles in her throat had closed so that she could barely speak. Her heart wrenched. Anne didn’t stop to think. She didn’t pause to consider. She simply did what everything inside compelled her to do. She wound her arms around his waist and clung.

“I’m sorry, Simon. I’m so terribly, terribly sorry.”

The words seemed so inadequate! Yet she didn’t know what else to say.

She had startled him. She knew it from the
way he suddenly froze. Twisting slightly, he peered down at her.

Something nearly broke inside her at the gentleness of his gaze. She was perilously near tears. She couldn’t say any more.

He whispered her name. His arms stole around her, with an almost painstaking slowness.

“I’m all right, Anne.”

But he wasn’t. That long-ago night still haunted him. Never did it leave him, never for a moment. It lay beneath his skin, a thorn that forever pricked, every hour, every day. A sharp, rending pain pierced her breast. She could not bear it. Yet if she could not, how could he?
How could he?

But, oh!—that he should seek to comfort her! She could have wept all over again.

For she suddenly understood all that she had not.

The day in Hyde Park when she and Caro had been walking with Izzie and Jack—the day they’d met, the way he’d lashed into her after he snatched up Jack.

His reluctance to hold Jack that very same evening, that splinter of something she’d never quite been able to decipher.

His neglect of Rosewood. The shambles in the library, his dictate that she leave it as is.

His anger yesterday when she’d disregarded
his wishes and ventured out in the storm. The look on his face when he saw her, a look she recognized now as blind, sheer panic.

She hadn’t understood any of it. She hadn’t understood
him.

Now she did.

When Ellie, Joshua, and Jack had died, the pages of his life had stopped turning. He had shut himself off, shut himself away to ward off the pain.

Oh, but she had been so wrong about him! He wasn’t cold. He wasn’t unfeeling. He was simply a man who bore on his shoulders a weight that no one should ever have to carry.

Caro had thought that he was lonely.

But he needn’t be alone any longer. He had her…whether he knew it or not. Whether he
wanted
her or not.

Even if it was only for a year.

Squeezing her eyes shut, she laid her cheek against the soft linen of his shirt. A huge lump had settled in her throat. She couldn’t have gotten a word around it if she’d wanted to. And all at once, his nearness had an unpredictable effect. A tremor tore through her. She wasn’t prepared for the stark, sudden yearning that swamped all through her; it swept over her like the raging of a storm, so intense that for one paralyzing moment, she could not breathe. And when she could, her breathing came in a desperate, labored rush.

Her pulse knocked wildly. Did Simon hear? Did he
know
?

If he did, there was no sign of it. He didn’t move. He simply held her—a feeling that suddenly wrought as much pain as pleasure.

She swallowed a pang when he finally eased away, for she hated that it should end! A torrent of longing shot through her. She could have stayed like that endlessly, locked in the warm protection of his hold. She wanted desperately for him to reach for her once more. But not in comfort this time. This time with fever and fire, with passion and promise…

Oh, but it was futile to wish for things she knew could never be. As futile as wishing on stars.

Fighting to quell the clamoring of her heart, Anne smothered a sigh. It gave her a start to see Simon’s regard fixed on her intently. Her mouth went dry, her gaze tangling helplessly with his.

With one hand he skimmed his knuckles over her cheek, a touch so unbearably gentle, it tied her insides in knots.

“Are you all right?”

Anne felt herself nod shakily.

He would have stepped back, but Anne took a deep breath. “Wait,” she said.

He looked at her questioningly.

She clasped her hands before her, grateful for the shadows that hid her burning cheeks. She
was trembling inside. “The terms of our marriage have been set out,” she said, the pitch of her voice very low. “I—I understand that you do not want me in your bed. I understand that you do not want me as—as mother of your children. But we must live together for the next year, Simon. And…we need not be enemies.”

She hadn’t known she was going to say it until she did. Now that she had, well, she didn’t regret it.

There was a rush of silence. “It was never my intention to make you feel unwelcome, Anne. But I have, haven’t I?”

Now it was Anne who hesitated. She could feel the weight of his gaze.

“Yes,” he said slowly. “I see that I have.”

“It’s been difficult,” she admitted.

A ghost of a smile rimmed his lips. “You need not spare me, Anne.
I
have been difficult. Indeed, I’ve been quite intolerable, haven’t I?”

Anne wasn’t quite sure what to say.

His smile faded. “I should like it”—he appeared to choose his words very carefully—“if you would forgive me.”

Oh, God.
God!
How could she not?

“I…of course.” She felt suddenly lame.

“I shall endeavor to do better, I promise. But you must make a promise too.”

Anne blinked.

“If I am, you must tell me.”

She bit her lip. “Simon—”

One dark brow climbed a fraction.

“Very well then.” The words tumbled out in a rush. “’Tis a promise.”

“Excellent,” he murmured.

He shocked her then, for she expected him to leave.

He didn’t. Instead he stepped close, so close she sucked in a breath. Both the movement and his nearness caught her off guard.

His knuckles curled beneath her chin—and with the slightest pressure, he tilted her face to his.

Her eyes locked helplessly on his. Something lurked in his eyes, something that made her heart trip crazily. A tiny little jolt shot through her, an arrow of fire. For one mind-shattering moment, she wondered if he meant to kiss her. At the prospect, a perilous curl of heat gathered in her midsection.

But all he did was sweep his thumb across the fullness of her lip. Was she relieved? Or was she disappointed?

Then it was gone, as suddenly as it appeared.

“Good night, Anne.” Leaning forward, he brushed his mouth against her forehead, the merest breath of air. “Sleep well.”

The contact was brief, fleeting—and chaste. So very chaste.

Slowly she let out her breath, unaware she’d
been holding it. Long after Simon had gone, she stood frozen to the spot, trying desperately to still the irrational fluttering of her pulse. Perhaps it was madness. Perhaps
she
was mad. Her mind spun, like the wind across the moors. For the chaste kiss he’d delivered was not the sort of kiss that she suddenly longed for!

She wanted more. Much, much more.

But she hadn’t conjured up that intense look on Simon’s features in that instant when he touched her. She hadn’t imagined it. But what
was
it? Fondness? Affection? No.
No
. It was more than that. She could feel it in every corner of her soul.

And in that moment, Anne took heart.

If Simon’s mood was unsettled that night, he couldn’t help it. He sat in his study, swirling the whisky in his glass. Strangely, there was no shame at all that he’d divulged to Anne. It wasn’t that he was relieved. It simply
was
, and there was no more consideration beyond that.

No, it wasn’t that which compelled his reach for another glass of whisky. It was his conscience. It besieged him, battered him as never before. It gnawed like a blight upon his soul. A restless stirring quested inside him, like the swirling of winds gaining power and might before the onslaught of a storm.

He disliked knowing he was such a beast. He
disliked knowing what his lovely wife thought of him! He’d changed, he realized darkly. He’d changed far more than he cared to admit!

His mood grew vile. A bitter ache settled over him. And to think he’d once been a man of utmost patience. He was lucky. Lucky that the lovely Anne had deigned to forgive him.

The minutes sped into an hour. Another glass of whisky burned down his throat, downed in a fiery gulp. Yet another.

What was it she possessed? he pondered. Yes, she was a beauty. But Ellie had been just as beautiful. And Anne was fiery, even contentious—at least with him! Not that he could blame her, he allowed. She filled his mind, in a way he did not welcome. In a way he’d thought would never happen. Never again in this life. Never again in this world.

His gaze strayed toward the ceiling, again and again.

Anne’s chamber lay directly above his study.

Near dawn, he finally stumbled up the stairs.

Fired by drink, fueled by desire, he halted just outside her door.

He was gripped by a longing he could not control; there was simply no help for it. Conscious thought was lost. Simon did not care. His thoughts roamed unfettered. Did she sleep naked? he wondered. No, not Anne. Anne
would be wearing a fine lace night rail. And if she were to rise—if the light of the fire were behind her, perhaps—every sweet, luscious curve of her body would be revealed. As if she
were
naked.

His fingers curled around the polished brass handle. He had to see her. He had to
know.

Before he could stop himself, he stood above her.

His gaze slid over her. Her hair tumbled across the pillow, a temptation such as he had never known. His jaw bunched hard, but his gaze roved at will, lingering as long as he willed, wher
ever
he willed. He gave a fervent prayer of thanks, for he was not to be dissuaded. He was not to be dismissed.

She lay on her back, the covers rumpled over her breasts. Alas, she wasn’t naked. But the wide neckline of her night rail had slipped low, revealing the slope of one bare, silken shoulder.

Her head was angled in such a way that it bared the slim length of her throat, which had always harbored such strange fascination for him. The compulsion to touch her was nigh uncontrollable. Simon battled it, though he longed to trace the slivers of her brows, the contours of her cheeks. But most of all he wanted to twine his fingers in the cloth of her night rail and drag it down—down!—that he might see her breasts, round and pale and perfect as he remembered, when he’d stripped her of her
garments after the storm…Oh, he’d managed to maintain a shuttered facade. For her sake, he’d told himself. And for his as well! And he’d tried not to look, but by heaven, he couldn’t help himself either.

Unaware of his scrutiny, she slumbered like a child. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips parted, her hands flung back on either side of the pillow, her palms up, slender fingers curled ever so little. She twitched, and Simon was sorely tempted to laugh, yet he’d never felt less like laughing in his life!

A cold sweat broke over his brow. Unable to stop himself, he trailed a finger over the delicate line of her jaw, marveling at the texture of her skin. The slightest movement, and he caught a silken skein of hair between his fingers and lifted it to his mouth.

Anne slept on.

Time spun out. Her lips were stained the color of a rose, a deep, vibrant pink. He bent low. His lips hovered above hers, so near he felt the warm wash of her breath upon his mouth. He wanted a long, hot sampling of her mouth. Indeed, he wanted far more…What would she do if he woke her? If he stretched out beside her and let happen what would, and the rest be damned!

He didn’t dare. She trusted him, implicitly. Simon didn’t know how he knew, but he did.

His body clenched. But his heart squeezed. If
only he could dismiss his awareness of the lovely Annabel as lust. He couldn’t. Because it wasn’t. Yet he couldn’t deny the white-hot flare of passion that seized hold of him whenever she was near.

Nor could he submit to it.

Some dark, inexplicable emotion slipped over him, like a veil of mist. Anne did not see his deformity. He hid it. His ugliness. The ugliness without, the ugliness within.

No, he decided, he couldn’t give in. He wouldn’t, he told himself harshly. He could tolerate much, for he’d done it before, hadn’t he?

A year. A year and they would part. It would be easiest that way. It would be
best.

Stepping back, he expelled a long, ragged breath. But somehow Simon couldn’t forget the niggling little voice in the recess of his mind.

We need not be enemies,
she had said.

But, oh, how much easier if they were!