She lay back on her bed, tucking the handkerchief beneath her pillow. She wasn’t ready to have anyone see it. She wasn’t certain what it signified, but right now it was the only clue, the only advantage she had. She wasn’t about to let anyone else get a look at it until she was good and ready.
Five
Amnesia. What a crock! Who did Molly think she was, expecting them to believe such a cock-and-bull story? Maybe in romance novels, maybe in TV movies, but not in real life.
It was just a little too damned convenient. As long as she pretended not to remember anything, she was buying herself time.
But she couldn’t keep it up forever. Sure, her eyes looked wide and guileless as she looked at each of them in turn, but she could be acting. She’d gotten damned good at it.
If she wasn’t faking, then things were even more dangerous. If that too convenient amnesia was the real McCoy, it could disappear as quickly as it came, leaving her with a dear memory of what had happened to her just a few short weeks ago.
And what had happened to the man known as George Andrews.
That couldn’t be allowed to happen. She was going to have to die. Sooner or later. And sooner would be a much more acceptable alternative.
Molly woke up in darkness, disoriented, panicked. It took her a moment to remember where she was. She sat up in bed, switching on the light, trying to still the fear that washed over her. She was just feeling stir crazy—she hadn’t wanted to go outside for fear she’d run into Patrick and Lisa. An hour of their company had been about all she could handle. She knew she wouldn’t be allowed to take the car anywhere until she’d proven her trustworthiness to that self-righteous, adulterous pig of a husband, even though the car might very well belong to her. Willy had disappeared as soon as he got up, and she didn’t even have his doubtful company to distract her. There was a stack of mysteries in the bookcase, but to her disgust once more her memory failed her. She may not have known her own face, name, or even bow she drank her coffee, but all she had to do was read the opening paragraph to remember whodunit.
She still hadn’t met the other occupant of the old stone farmhouse. Cousin Ermintrude White, known to her as Aunt Ermy, said Mrs. Morse, was off on one of her incessant rounds of visits. Molly could tell from the housekeeper’s look of disdain that Ermintrude White was not looked upon with affection in this household. Indeed, most of Mrs. Morse’s approval seemed reserved for Patrick, despite his lapse in taste when it came to Mrs. Canning, and for Molly, a fact which surprised her. Here was one person who didn’t hold her previous bad behavior against her. Perhaps if one dug deep enough there were excuses, but at that point Molly couldn’t begin to fathom what they could be.
Nor was she particularly interested in hearing the details of all the evil she had done, at least, not from the one person who seemed to like her. Molly was simply glad to bask in the sudden affection. She was a good woman, Mrs. Morse, and it felt oddly encouraging to have her approval.
She heard the heavy footsteps first, followed by the peremptory knocking on her door. She leaned back, waiting, knowing perfectly well who was coming upstairs in such a towering rage. She had no intention of reacting if she could help it.
The door flew open and Patrick stood there, tall and lean against the doorway, and for a moment she felt a little clutching sense of longing. One that disappeared when she realized this wasn’t a friendly visit.
“I would have thought,” he said, his voice cold and cutting, “that you would have the common courtesy to abide by the schedule in this house. I should have known it would be too much to ask, but nevertheless I not only ask it, I demand it. You will come downstairs for drinks right now and be polite to our guests. I suppose even you are capable of that much.” The withering contempt cut through her as she lay there motionless. “Now!” He moved into the room menacingly, and she sprang from the bed before she could stop herself.
He laughed then, and it wasn’t a pleasant sound. “I’m glad to see I’m at least able to frighten you into decent behavior. We’ll be in the library.” He started out the door, stopped and turned. “By the way, in case you’ve forgotten, you usually dress for dinner.”
Molly could see from the faint light in the ball that he was still wearing his faded jeans, and she shrugged with a fine show of bravado. “I have no clothes,” she said simply. “These will have to do.”
“By that I assume you mean that your extravagant wardrobe no longer interests you and you wish to go out and spend a similar sum or more.” He shrugged. “Be my guest. Mrs. Morse can accompany you if you insist. After all, it’s your money.”
“How much money is there?” she demanded, scrambling off the bed.
“I wondered when you’d get around to asking,” he said with an unpleasant laugh. “As a matter of feet, it was your seeming disinterest in money that almost had me believing your cock-and-bull story about amnesia. I should have known you couldn’t keep it up.”
“I merely wanted to know,” she said in a cool voice, “if I have enough to buy you off. If I give it to you would you let me go?”
She’d managed to startle him. “I don’t want your damned money,” he said bitterly.
“Then what do you want from me? Why did you marry me?” She scrambled off the bed, starting toward him. She was deliberately trying to goad him, and she told herself she was simply wanting to get the truth from him. And she knew she was lying.
She was trying to goad him into touching her again. She wanted to see if his touch still made her tremble, as it had last night.
He backed away, not bothering to hide his uneasiness. “Be down in five minutes, Molly. Or I’ll come back to get you.”
It was supposed to be a threat. It sounded more like a temptation to Molly.
She waited just long enough before leaving the room, running down the curving stairs swiftly, two at a time, knowing if she hesitated she would lose her courage. Stopping before the living room door, she heard the noise of glasses and ice, quiet laughter and camaraderie that would vanish the moment she appeared. But appear she must—her husband had so decreed. Taking a deep breath, she ambled into the room with studied unconcern.
Patrick ignored her when she entered the room, busying himself at the bar.
“There you are, darling!” Lisa greeted her. She was curled up on the sofa like a contented cat. “Did you have a nice afternoon?”
“Lovely,” she replied politely. “And you?”
Lisa cast a meaningful glance at Patrick’s back, and her smile was unbearably smug. “Very stimulating.”
