CHAPTER NINETEEN

 

Amanda spent an interminably sleepless night pacing, arguing with herself, arguing with Michael in absentia, blaming his drunken arrogance and her own foolishness for prompting a confrontation that should never have progressed as far as it had. But it had, and now he was off on his own somewhere and she was sitting a tearful vigil over her sleeping daughter, playing and replaying every wretched detail of the day and night through her mind, wondering if there had been any single moment when either of them could have just held up their hands and stopped things going from bad to worse to terrible.

The ring had been presented at an inappropriate time, that was all. And he hadn’t lied to her about wanting Ryan’s help with his bloody horses, he simply hadn’t discussed any of his business activities with her at all. Nor was he obliged to. There were no vows in the wedding ceremony that stated “thou must divulge all of thy plans, motives, secrets …”

She had secrets too, and each time Amanda looked at Verity, she suffered a fresh, hot blur of tears. Ryan was right. She should have told Michael everything. The whole sordid truth. She would have been able to tell Caleb, and he would have accepted the child as his own. She probably would have been able to tell Josh—before she had known about him and Alisha, of course—but that was because she had known him most of her life and he would have understood the importance of keeping a family together, regardless of the cost or the sacrifice.

She simply didn’t know Michael Tarrington well enough to trust him with such fragile pieces of her heart. Or to guess what his reaction toward the child might be.

His parting words echoed in her ears like wind chimes. Stay here, go back to the Glen with him. It was her choice. But with dawn an avalanche of pink and purple clouds rolling across the sky, and he hadn't come back to talk to her further, she was more confused and uncertain than ever.

Maybe, if she only had herself to worry about, it would have been an easier choice to make. But she did have Verity to worry about and the child had been genuinely frightened by the anger and brutish display. Verity held the most fragile piece of her heart and came first in importance and always would.

There was no water in the pitcher when she looked and she slipped out of the room to go to the kitchen. Her path took her past the parlor and she might not have seen him, might not have stopped had a stab of reflected sunlight not drawn her eye into the room as she passed. Her footsteps slowed, stopped, and her uncertainty kept her poised on the threshold with her heart lodged in her throat and her hands reaching up to hug her upper arms.

Michael was there, asleep on a chair, his long legs spread and bent at ungainly angles, his arms hanging over the sides. Clutched in one hand was a glass that still held a few drops of amber liquid; beside him, an empty bottle of whiskey. His shirt was opened to his waist and his head was lolled to one side.

The sight sent her leaning against the wall for support. Her throat was dry, her senses suddenly so acute, she swore she could hear the room itself breathing.

She had not yet had the opportunity to observe her husband with his defenses down. How different he looked, especially without the maturing slash of moustache to camouflage the youthful shape of his mouth. Gone too were the etched lines of authority that readily pleated his brow, and the rigid set to his jaw that made him look so formidable, so uncompromising. The long sweep of his lashes lay on his cheeks like the fallen wings of a sparrow, and his hair, never completely tidy at the best of times, curled over the top of his collar and lay against his cheek in gleaming, thick waves.

His shirt was spread open across the breadth of his chest, and she could recall quite clearly how it felt to run her fingers through the wealth of coarse dark hairs. Her gaze wandered lower and traced the outline of his thighs, following the creases and folds in his trousers, lingering over the bulge that was impressive even in repose. It did not take much effort to remove the barriers in her mind’s eye, to see him naked and standing in the sunlit alcove, or naked and kneeling in front of a glowing fire, or naked and lying beneath her, assuring her he would not break and neither would she.

He had frightened her that first night, but only with his power and vitality. And he had taken such care to remove those fears, to turn them one by one into eagerness and passion, that she could not bring herself to believe he would ever do anything to deliberately hurt her or Verity.

Lust was not a Yankee monopoly. More than a few honorable Southern gentlemen, overcome by drink and desire, would undoubtedly have behaved the same way. Some men —and it took no strain to imagine Forrest Wainright’s greedy, grasping hands—might not have stopped last night at all, whether Verity was there beside them or not. Michael had stopped. He had been as shocked as she and instantly contrite. And had obviously spent the night drowning in guilt.

Amanda drew a deep breath and pushed away from the wall. She walked across the width of the parlor and stopped beside his chair, and tried not to notice how badly her fingers were trembling as she reached down and touched his arm.

Michael’s jaw worked up and down and his chin came up off his chest. His foot stirred and his leg straightened. The hand holding the glass lost its grip, sending the heavy crystal to the floor with a dull thud. The noise brought his eyes open, but it took a long moment for him to bring them into focus. The gray centers were washed pale by lack of sleep, the whites were veined and bloodshot.

He became aware of someone standing between him and the window, and his eyes made a concentrated effort to squint through the glare the reflected sunlight was throwing off Amanda’s dressing gown. He followed the blurred flow of white cloth upward and when he found Amanda’s face, he held it for two measurable heartbeats before his eyes widened and he was jolted awake.

“I’m sorry," she said. "I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Michael sat up straight and took a further moment to gain his bearings. He knuckled his eyes and rubbed until some of the fog cleared. "What time is it?"

"Just after dawn. Six or so, I should think."

He grunted and pushed to his feet, crossing to the window so he could open the sash and bring in some cool air. When he had taken several lungfuls, he turned and gazed at Amanda, searching along the delicately ruffled edge of her robe until he saw the face of her locket. When he saw the scrolled initial in its bed of etched roses, some of the wariness drained from his face, but he still looked as though he needed a gallon of strong coffee and some crushed willow bark to stop the drumming in his head.

 

The blood was, indeed, pounding in his temples and his mouth tasted like rusted iron. The world outside was too goddamned bright and he quickly turned his back to it, but that only brought the glowing white specter of Amanda before him and he had to cradle his head in his hands to keep his skull from splitting apart. The collar of his shirt was displaced further, letting the light fall directly on the ridge of his collarbone.

Amanda moved a step closer, a small frown wrinkling her brow.

“Did I do that?” she asked in a whisper, reaching cool fingers toward his neck.

Michael waved away her hand and pressed his own over the area that had drawn her concern. When he found the lines of raw scratchmarks Alisha’s nails had left, his stomach rolled over in another sickly somersault.

“I’m sorry,” Amanda said, and looked down at her hands. “I … reacted badly. I shouldn’t have been so … anxious, and I certainly shouldn’t have struck you.”

Michael had no reply, mainly because there wasn’t one. If he told her she hadn’t been the one to leave the marks on his neck, he would have to tell her who did, and then he would have to tell her the rest. He watched her struggling with her conscience, and he tried to see the lie, tried to convince himself he would never find it, but he only saw Alisha’s taunting grin and heard the echo of her laughter telling him his wife was proficient at cheating at far more than cards.

“You … said you wanted to leave early. I can make you breakfast, if—”

“I’m not bothered about breakfast,” he interrupted a little more curtly than intended. “I’ll be leaving as soon as Foley brings the carriage around.”

Amanda moistened her lips, still avoiding his eyes. “Very well. We should only need an hour or so to get ready, or”— she looked up and her eyes were the same unbearably clear blue as the sky outside—“if you don’t want to wait, we can have someone drive us home later.”

His head was not pounding so much that he missed the word home. Nor did the loud rushing of blood through his veins drown out the word we.

“How is Verity?” he asked, scanning the nearby sideboard in search of something to moisten his mouth. There was only wine and whiskey, neither of which seemed like wise choices at the moment. “Are you certain she wants to come with me? Are you certain you want to come with me?”

“She just needs time,” Amanda said. “Perhaps we all just need time to adjust.”

Michael's nod was a feeble effort at best. He found himself in the awkward and totally unfamiliar position of wanting desperately to pull his wife into his arms yet fearing that if he did, she might push him away.

 

Amanda bowed her head and twisted her hands together. His question had caught her off guard, for despite having the same argument with herself over the past few hours, hearing the guilt in his voice had made her realize how foolish her doubts were. But what she longed to hear, what she wanted to hear was that he was giving them no choice.