Secrets (15 page)

At a glance, the initials on the back of the locket might appear to be
ES
. But they were most definitely not
ES
. Nor were they
DS
.

They were
RS
.

RS
.

Those were not Elizabeth's initials. They were not her mother's initials.
Who was RS?

Why were the initials RS engraved upon this little locket?

There was no reason for Victoria to be suspicious of Elizabeth except for the fact that Victoria had been scheming to gain her own ends since she was a homeless child. In those long-ago but never-forgotten days, she had connived in order to survive. She had more than attained her ends when she had married Rick Delanza twenty-three years ago—until Miramar had fallen upon bad times.

Now she spent her days scheming to gain for her son everything that he should have, which would concurrently solidify her own position as mistress of Miramar. So Victoria instantly wondered if Elizabeth's amnesia was false and if Elizabeth was someone other than who she claimed to be. Her very first thought was that if she were a nobody and a young woman, she would gladly pretend to be Elizabeth Sinclair in order to marry into the Delanza family and gain the power and prestige that came hand-in-glove with being Miramar's first lady.

But if that were the case, wouldn't Rick have known? Maybe, Victoria mused, flushed with excitement, but maybe not. After all, Rick had not seen Elizabeth in five years, except that once at George Sinclair's funeral, and then she had been so heavily veiled that no one could see her features.

Victoria leaped to her feet, trying to tell herself to be calm. There were many reasons why Elizabeth might carry a locket with intials other than her own upon it. The locket might have been given to her by the woman whose initials were RS. It was that simple.

But perhaps Elizabeth was not who she said she was—perhaps she was an imposter, a fortune-hunting imposter who was very cleverly pretending to have amnesia and manipulating them all. For if she did not know very much about the real Elizabeth Sinclair or James or Miramar, what better way to pull off her charade?

Victoria ran from the room. Tomorrow she would go to San Luis Obispo herself to visit Elizabeth's family to ascertain if the woman calling herself Elizabeth Sinclair was really Elizabeth Sinclair after all.

And somehow, Victoria knew that she was not.

A
fter supper Slade escorted Regina across the courtyard and back to her room. Supper had not been the most pleasant of affairs. Victoria's absence was glaring. Edward was charming, but he was clearly trying too hard to make up for his mother's hostility. Rick's joviality was genuine, but overwhelming. His obvious pleasure at their impending marriage reminded Regina that he was looking forward to her inheritance as much as—or more than—her advent into the family. Enough to have considered her marrying Edward instead of Slade. She could not eat, she could barely hide her distress. Nothing could have made her feel more like a sack of goods, to be handed over to whichever brother proved more convenient.

Slade had not spoken during the entire meal, either. But he had been seated next to her, and she had felt his glance on her more often than not. Outside her doors, they paused. It was dusky out, but a multitude of stars were beginning to cast their lights, glittering faintly above their heads. All around them the heady scents of roses and hibiscus wafted, thick and sweet. The faint sound of the surf rushing at the shore was a lulling melody, a serenade, and the night air was so
soft and pleasant it felt like a velvet caress upon Regina's cheek.

It was a night ideally suited to romance. Such a night dismayed Regina even more. Romance could have been so easily on her mind. Instead, she was considering how she might broach the subject of their marriage, if she dared broach it in regard to Edward. She could not let this topic alone. She had given him her word in accepting his proposal, but she was ready to go back on it.

There was no delicate way to bring it up, either. “I cannot believe what you said in there.”

Slade leaned against the rough stone of the house. “I thought that was coming.”

She stared up at him. “Is that the way it was going to be? If I wouldn't marry you, they'd bring forth Edward?” Tears laced her voice.

He hesitated.

Regina closed her eyes in misery. No answer was answer enough.

“It wouldn't have come to that,” he said forcefully. He gripped her wrist, causing her to look at him. “I know it sounds bad. I—”

“It's horrible!”

“Elizabeth,” he said, very firmly, “you were engaged to James, or have you forgotten? And that was arranged, just like our marriage is.”

Her head began pounding. “I can't remember James. That's why it doesn't feel wrong to marry you.” There was more than that, so much more, in her heart, but she would never tell him so.

Slade hesitated again. “James is dead. Dead, and in the past.” For a scant instant, he turned his face away from her. “Rick was using the threat of Edward to break me, that's all.”

She moaned. “He had to force you into the idea of marrying me?”

Slade uttered an incoherent curse under his breath. “Rick can't force me to do anything. He just likes trying, that's all. Forget about Edward. You're not marrying him. It was never a possibility, except maybe for Victoria,
who would do anything if she thought it would benefit Edward. Sometimes I think she'd commit murder if it would help him.”

She regarded him in dismay. How she needed some small sign from him that he cared, even a little, about her!

He shifted. “We're really not so bad. It just may seem that way right now. The Delanza men may not be gentle poets, and we sure as hell aren't very subtle, but we're strong and we take care of our own. Once you're married into the family, you can count on Rick and Edward as if they were your own father and brother, for anything. I want you to know that. Once you marry into the family, you won't be alone, not ever again. Delanzas are notorious for their loyalty. In fact, with the amnesia, you need us.”

He had paused. She was hugging herself, expecting him to say, “And you need me.” But he didn't. He shifted again. “You're not making a mistake, Elizabeth.”

She wanted more than words from him—unless they were the right words. “And you?” Her heart was thundering. “Are you notoriously loyal, too?”

“And me,” he said somberly. “I'm a Delanza, too.”

Her heart beat harder, faster. Was he making her a promise? The idea of having his loyalty was overwhelming. It was a powerful lure. Yet she could not quite get over the fact that Edward might have been foisted on her had Slade not agreed to marry her, regardless of what Slade had said.

“I don't know,” she whispered.

“You were engaged to James, you knew that, but you agreed to marry me. What would have been the difference if you agreed to marry Edward?”

She looked at Slade, trembling. Did she dare respond truthfully? He was marrying her for her money. How could she tell him that she was marrying him for the promise of the future? His eyes seemed black in the shadows of dusk. Black, but so intense. “I wouldn't have agreed to marry Edward.”

He didn't move. “Why not?”

It was a painful admission. “He's not you,” she managed softly.

Slade didn't even blink. It was his cue, but he did not take it. He turned his head away, staring God knew where. He did not offer her hope.

Regina almost moaned, perilously distraught. “Lord, I f-feel like a b-bag of oats.” Her head swam. There was so much desire, and so much pain. She had to think, sort out this mess, before it was too late, but she couldn't think clearly now. She turned, anxious to leave him.

He caught her, taking her loosely in his arms, causing the hopefulness and the wishing to spin dizzily out of control. “Lady, you are the farthest thing from a bag of oats I have ever seen.”

Their gazes locked. Very naturally, Regina's hands settled on his shirt, pressing against the rock-hard muscle of his chest. She did not mean to touch him and she did not mean to cling, but she was doing both.

Her senses were only peripherally aware of the stars and the song of the sea and the scent of the summer blooms. She was in Slade's arms. She could not look away from him. Finally he was offering her something of himself. Greedily, she would take whatever he gave her. “B-but that's h-how I feel. Like goods. I-it's awful.”

“I'm sorry,” he said roughly. He leaned toward her. Regina froze, eyes wide, thinking he was going to kiss her. Despite her second thoughts, her body reacted with enthusiasm. But kisses were not his intention. Low and intense, he spoke. “I'll be a good husband. At least, I'll try to be. I won't…I won't make you unhappy. Not on purpose, anyway.”

She was stunned. Instinct told her that she was getting a promise from this man that he had never given before—and that he would never give again. Any battle she had been waging with herself was lost. She gripped his shirt. “And—I will be a good wife to you.”

His face was close enough to hers that despite the darkness—and night was settling over them rapidly now—she could see the blaze leap in his eyes. His
powerful palms almost crushed the delicate bones of her shoulders. Exhilaration swept through her. They had just made a pact, and although it was incomplete, it was a promise for the future, for their future, a future she knew would be glorious. She strained toward him on tiptoe. She wanted his kiss. She wanted another kiss like the one he had given her on the beach that day, a kiss both powerful and intimate, a kiss both agonizing and electrifying. She craved him, not just with her body, but with her heart and soul.

He stared down at her, tension straining his features. His eyes were even brighter than they had been the instant before. Beneath her fingertips, she felt his heart pounding in a mad gallop. Regina trembled, knowing that before she took another breath his mouth would be on hers.

“Dammit, Elizabeth.” He dropped his hands abruptly, and just as abruptly, he moved away from her.

Regina could not understand why he had not kissed her. She was unable to move, filled with shock and disappointment.

“You're playing with fire, lady,” he said, stalking away from her. He circled the fountain, not once but twice.

She watched him. Again he reminded her of the caged tiger she had seen in the zoo. His rigid strides hinted at a hot energy, at an imminent explosion. “What does that mean?”

He paused, legs braced, hands clenched into fists. He had put the fountain between them. “Better you don't know.”

Regina had not ceased shaking. Her next words came unbidden, surprising not just him, but herself. “Don't you want to kiss me again?”

“No.” He was suddenly, inexplicably, furious. She watched him whirl across the courtyard and slam into the house, into his bedroom, as forceful as a hurricane. The heavy oak doors thundered behind him.

She nearly collapsed against the rough stone wall. She stared after him, shaking harder than before. Now what
had she done? What could she have possibly done to bring on such anger? He could not be angry because she had wanted a kiss. He had wanted one too, she was almost certain of it. Was it possible that he was trying to be a gentleman, trying to be honorable, trying to avoid touching her until their wedding night?

There was no other explanation. Regina should have laughed, she should have been happy with such consideration, but instead, she choked on a lump in her throat. Moments ago she had been so certain that their future would be glorious. Now, she wasn't quite so sure. Slade was not going to be an easy man to get to know, not on any level.

But she knew her duty. And regardless of how difficult it might be, she would be patient, endlessly patient, if that was what it took. And it dawned on her that she could cultivate the softness and sensitivity he had dared to reveal more than once, cultivate it gently and carefully, the way one would tend the most precious and fragile of exotic blooms. She would encourage him to leave his hard edges and anger behind.

The notion was heartening. Finally calming, she opened her doors and stepped swiftly inside her bedroom, where it was dark and still warm from earlier in the day. She took another deep breath. Feeling much less shaken, she snapped on the lights—and gasped.

The lid of one of her trunks was open, and even from a distance she could see that someone had been rummaging through her things. She ran to the chest, kneeling beside it. All of her neatly folded clothes were rumpled and mussed. Just as they had been that day in the hotel in Templeton.

Regina froze, frightened.

She had not dwelled upon that first incident, feeling safe here at Miramar. Yet someone had trespassed again. Someone had invaded her bedroom and gone through her private possessions. But why? And, just as importantly, who?

She had to wonder if the culprit had thievery on his mind. She did not think so, because if that were the case,
the thief would have taken all that he wanted back at the hotel and would not have needed to return a second time. Unless he had been interrupted the first time.

She shuddered. At least now she knew what she possessed and she could determine if anything was missing. She hurriedly turned to the trunks. A lightning-fast search through the compartment which contained her jewelry, all that she had of value, revealed that nothing was missing except for a small, worthless locket. The locket had contained an old and faded photograph of a young woman, but Regina had not recognized her. It had been engraved with the initials
RS
, causing Regina to assume that some family member had given it to her.

She was angry as well as frightened. Although she did not know anything about the locket, it had been the most personal of all of her possessions, and she felt a distinct sense of loss. Obviously the locket had been of value to her or it wouldn't have been among her things. Slowly Regina stood up and went to a chair, where she sank abruptly down.

Why had someone been searching through her things if not to steal? And why had they taken the locket instead of the bracelets or the necklace? It did not make sense. And who was the culprit?

Victoria had not been at dinner, but Regina could not believe that she would bother to snoop and steal. Lucinda disliked her, but wouldn't a maid take something of value? Perhaps the thief had been someone she did not know, but someone who knew her.

She shivered. Someone had been here in her room, violating her privacy and rifling through her possessions. Someone had stolen the locket; she sensed that the thief was interested in her, not her belongings. She could not be more powerfully reminded of her vulnerability, trapped as she was in the mental darkness of amnesia, and she was afraid.

Regina realized that she had left her doors open, and that with the bedroom lights on, anyone might be watching her from the dark night outside. Quickly she
crossed the room and closed them, her heart beating rapidly. She tried telling herself that she was being a silly fool, that no one was watching her, that her imagination was running wild because of the small theft. But the jittery feeling in her breast did not ease.

Her instinct was to run to Slade. He had said he would protect her and he had meant it. She was certain he would be angry that someone in his home had dared to steal from her. He had strength, strength that she would heartily welcome right now. But she knew better than to seek him out in his bedroom. Not after he had just left her in anger. She reminded herself that whoever had been snooping had apparently not meant to harm her, but she was not relieved. Tomorrow, first thing, she would tell Slade all that had happened.

 

Slade could not stand it. He jerked himself from the bed, standing very still, his head cocked toward the courtyard. He had his doors open but the screens were in place, a matter of habit. Inside the room he had one small lamp on which emitted a very dim light, and the night outside was terrifically black.

He was hot. Sweating hot. And it had nothing to do with the weather. A midnight fog had started to roll in, and this close to the ocean, there was nothing unusual about that. The night was cool, misty, and sweet. He wore nothing but a pair of short cotton drawers. Sweat left a sheen on his bare chest. Three months without a woman was more self-denial than he could handle. Especially now.