The Taste of Innocence (42 page)

And he did want to know. Indeed, he seemed absolutely tormented that he didn’t know.

She grimaced; arms folded, she turned and paced on. If she walked into his library and said she needed his opinion on problems with the orphanage, she’d immediately have his full attention. He wouldn’t mention his earlier words, or hers. It would all be so terribly polite but, to her mind, also terribly unsatisfactory.

It was all so stupid. In their bedchamber, no matter the constraint between them—his careful wariness, her irritation—neither of them could deny what happened there, that no matter his feelings or hers, love ruled—absolutely and completely, without quarter. But the instant they left that room, a wall went up between them, and she’d yet to find any way under, over, or around it, much less through it.

She wanted to knock it down, to shake its foundations so it came tumbling down and it was impossible for him to rebuild it. She still had no idea how to accomplish that, but giving him a way to soothe his increasingly abraded protectiveness without acknowledging that said protectiveness was there, so painfully present, because he loved her seemed a very bad move, a seriously backward step.

If she did such a thing, he would see it, and cling to it, as evidence that his way—with his daytime wall intact—could, and in time would, work. It couldn’t, it wouldn’t, but he was a man, and almost as stubborn as she was.

Yet if she didn’t seek his help, help he could and would give…?

What if she were right, and the accidents and offers for the orphanage were linked?

“Damn!” She halted, wrestling with the notion that she owed it to the orphanage staff and the children to swallow her pride and seek Charlie’s help now, immediately, before anything more happened, before anyone else got hurt. Yes, approaching him would harm her personal position, but…she was stubborn, more stubborn than he. She would come about.

Jaw setting, she breathed in and lifted her head, looking toward the library. A movement at the other end of the terrace, near her sitting room, caught her eye.

Barnaby Adair, coming up from the stables.

Everything she’d heard about Barnaby raced across her mind—all Charlie had said of him, all Jacqueline, Pris, and others had let fall. Penelope’s questions. She didn’t give herself time to question her judgment, but hailed him and waved.

He heard, then saw her. When she picked up her skirts and hurried across the lawn, he halted and waited.

“Sarah.” He took the hand she offered and bowed over it.

Disregarding all formality, she clutched his hand. “I need your opinion—it’s quite urgent. Can you spare a few minutes?”

Intelligent blue eyes searched her face. “However many you need.”

She gestured to her sitting room. “Come in and sit down.”

They went in; at her wave, he sat on the chaise. She stood before the hearth, pressed her hands together, then drew in a breath and commenced. “I own a farm—Quilley Farm—just outside Crowcombe, a little way north of here. The farm’s just a house with a few fields, not large, but it’s run as an orphanage.” Briefly she explained about her godmother’s legacy, then went on, “Early last month, a solicitor called on me at the orphanage to present an offer from an unnamed client to buy the farm. I refused. That seemed to be that, but later, after we married, a similar approach was made to Charlie—they, whoever they are, knew the farm’s title had passed to him on our marriage, but although it did, he passed it immediately back via the marriage settlements.”

Barnaby’s blue eyes were fixed on her face, his expression a testimony to utter concentration. He nodded, the lines about his mouth a trifle tight. “Then what?”

“Then…” She drew in a deep breath. “Accidents started happening.” She began to pace, and succinctly described each incident in order.

“So you see, things seem to be escalating. I can’t believe, as the staff do, that these are just the acts of some unhinged man. And then.” Halting, she fixed her eyes on Barnaby’s face. “Another solicitor called on me here yesterday morning. Charlie was out, and the man asked to see me specifically. He brought another offer—an even larger offer, one even he admitted was patently ridiculous—for the farm. He was high-handed and arrogant, but before I turned him away, I demanded the name of his client, but he insisted that was confidential.”

Barnaby had proved a good listener, yet as Sarah paused and looked more closely at him, she realized his eyes had grown round, that he was sitting amazingly upright, utterly still, that his blue gaze had grown distant, as if he were seeing something she couldn’t.

Then he blinked and met her eyes. “Ah—sorry. I just…” Again his eyes got that glazed, dazed look. “You said the orphanage was to the north…did you mean in this valley—between Watchet and Taunton?”

She frowned. “Yes.”

He suddenly stood up—so abruptly she took an involuntary step back. He held up his hands placatingly. “Just wait.”

She realized it was excitement—excitement so intense he was all but vibrating with it—that choked his voice.

“I need to check something with Charlie. Just stay there—I’ll be back in a moment—and then we’ll decide what to do.”

Astonished, Sarah watched him rush from the room. His footsteps strode—almost running—down the corridor; she heard the library door open, then shut.

“Well.” She stared at the open doorway for a moment, then moved to the chaise. He’d said “stay there,” but presumably she could sit.

At his desk in the library, Charlie stared at the pen poised between his fingers. The ink had dried on the nib. On the blotter lay a concise, as-yet-incomplete summary of all he’d learned regarding railway finances from Malcolm Sinclair. He’d started writing it as something he could actually do that might be useful, to distract himself from what he wasn’t able to do—ease what ever burden Sarah was laboring under.

The fact that he couldn’t—that courtesy of their current situation, he was unable to protect her, his wife, as every instinct he possessed insisted he should—wasn’t just a source of unease. His inability to act was eating at the foundation of who he was, of the man he knew he should be.

Underneath all, of the man he wanted to be.

His push to lock her, and all he felt for her, out of his daily life had resulted in his being locked out of her life. He hadn’t foreseen that, hadn’t considered what it would mean. How it would cut him off from something he now realized was vital.

Jaw clenching, he tapped the nib on the page, leaving small, smudged dots. This—their life as he’d scripted it—wasn’t working; there was too much that was wrong, too many emotions weighing on him. He had to find some way to change things…but how?

He had no idea. Especially as, when it came down to it, he was still, despite all, unwilling to allow love free rein in his life.

He heard hurrying footsteps outside the door an instant before Barnaby burst into the room. A transformed Barnaby; Charlie blinked at the glow in Barnaby’s face as he rushed to the desk.

“I’ve just been speaking with Sarah—tell me it’s real?” Leaning on the desk, Barnaby fixed his eyes on Charlie’s, excitement pouring from him. “After all our searching, I can barely believe it’s been under our noses all along. And what better case to flush out our villain?”

A chill swept through Charlie. He stared at Barnaby, uncomprehending but with premonition solidifying second by second to icy certainty in his veins.

Seeing his blankness, Barnaby paused. “But perhaps I’m leaping to conclusions. Is this farm a target? Will it be crucial to a railway line?”

What farm? But Charlie knew. Slowly, he laid aside his pen. “Quilley Farm.”

Barnaby registered his odd tone, tried to read his eyes and failed. “Sarah just told me about the accidents. They sound like the work of our villain, and combined with the offers for the property—”

“Offers? Plural?”

Lips tightening, Barnaby nodded. “But it all hinges on whether this farm is critical to a future railway line. Is it?”

It took effort to suppress his emotions enough to think. He drew in a breath. His control was shaky, tenuous, but he knew the land, the topography. It took only a second’s consideration to see it. “Yes.” His jaw clenched. “Absolutely. Once the Bristol-Taunton line is in, a spur from Taunton to Watchet would be not just obvious, but a commercial gold mine. And the valley narrows where the farm is—the property includes all of a shelf of land over which the railway would have to go.”

His mind already elsewhere, he rose, went to a set of drawers and opened the lowest. “Have a look at the map. The land beyond Crowcombe rises sharply and there’s nowhere—no space—to put in curves. The rail line would have to rise earlier, from before Crowcombe via the long upward slope south of the farm house, then go straight across the ledge and on through the fields to the north. That would be a clear run, easy engineering.”

Dragging a large map from the drawer, he turned and flicked it out over the desk. “Running a line along the valley bottom, you could get as far as just past Crowcombe, but there’s no way to go farther.”

Barnaby flattened the map and bent over it. “So—no option but to buy that farm.”

Charlie didn’t bother nodding. He pointed out the farm on the map. “If you’ll excuse me for a moment…”

He didn’t wait for any acknowledgment, didn’t care what Barnaby was thinking; all he knew as he opened the library door was what he was feeling. A species of horror beyond anything he’d ever known. And on its heels a black fury.

Perched on the chaise, Sarah was debating following Barnaby when she heard the door to the library close and a man’s deliberate footsteps head her way.

She recognized the stride as Charlie’s an instant before he appeared in the doorway. His eyes pinned her where she sat, but the distance was too great for her to read their expression; he hesitated, then turned and reached to either side, and ominously quietly—with ruthlessly controlled strength—closed both doors.

A ripple of reaction slithered down her spine. It prompted her to sit straighter; instead, declining to be intimidated, she leaned back against the chaise and watched as he drew near.

Stride slow and deliberate, he crossed the room; halting before the hearth, he looked down at her.

She studied his face, pale, set, every plane, every line unforgivingly harsh. His expression for once wasn’t impassive; it was strained, almost tortured.

His eyes trapped hers, held them. He drew in a tight breath. “I just learned, from Barnaby, that there have been accidents at the orphanage. And that you’ve received offers for the property—offers you suspect might be linked to the accidents.” His gaze held hers, ruthless and hard. “In short, you believe you as the orphanage’s owner are the target for some villain intent on forcing you to sell.”

She said nothing, simply watched him.

Suddenly his eyes blazed. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

It was a cry from the heart—tormented and true. He flung away. “You’re my wife!” He paced away, then swung back. “It’s my duty to protect you—I took vows to cherish and defend you. How can I do that if I don’t even know when some villain has you in his sights?”

He shot a furious look at her; she met it with outward calm. Her temper had risen, but it was his she found intriguing; her rigidly controlled husband didn’t lose his temper.

“You knew the accidents were serious—you’ve been worrying about them for weeks. Yet you wouldn’t tell me—I asked, but no, you brushed me aside.” His eyes were a turbulent sea of emotions, his gestures abrupt, muscles taut. “Yet the instant Barnaby appeared you poured your troubles into his ear—”

With a growl, he flung away, one hand rising to run through his hair, disrupting the elegant cut. Fascinated, Sarah saw that fist clench, tug, then abruptly release; violently he swung and paced back, halting before her, eyes burning with naked emotion.

“You deliberately hid all of this from me—all that threatened you.” His voice hadn’t gained in volume but in raw, tortured strength. “You refused to tell me what I had every right to know. What I needed to know.”

He choked. His eyes blazed. “Why?”

A furious demand, a tortured plea.

Looking into his eyes, Sarah saw, understood, a great deal more than she had. Pain roiled in the blue, put there by all he couldn’t help but feel. It was real, stark; she couldn’t mistake it.

But she wasn’t about to accept any more than the tiniest portion of the blame.

“Why?” With an effort, she kept her tone even, her eyes locked on the raging fury in his. “Because you made it plain that the orphanage was solely my concern, no responsibility of yours, that matters pertaining to it held no interest what ever for you. You made it very clear that the orphanage was a part of my personal life, and not in any way a part of yours.”

She hesitated, then went on, “Isn’t that what you’ve been telling me for weeks—ever since we married? Isn’t this—not knowing, not being bothered, not being included in my life—what you wanted?”

Seeing blankness creep across his eyes, sensing his sudden loss of anchor, she paused, then, still holding his gaze, more quietly stated, “I didn’t tell you because I believed you didn’t want to know.”

He didn’t look away, didn’t turn to conceal what she would see in his eyes, even though his muscles tensed and she knew the impulse rode him.