“Have I?” Her voice was carefully light. “I wouldn’t know.” She looked up at him with all the courage she could muster. “You know, I really don’t remember what I was like before. I can’t remember a thing.”
“Maybe you can’t,” he said enigmatically, moving closer to the table. “Or else you’re a damned good actress.” He leaned across her, his body brushing against hers just slightly as he turned on the lamp. “But then, you always were good at covering things up.”
The faint touch of his body against hers had almost sent the knife slicing through her hand, and it took all her self-control to hide her sudden agitation. Why in God’s name does he have such an effect on me?
He leaned back, watching her out of solemn eyes. “It’s good of you to help Mrs. Morse with dinner.”
She nodded, tossing one potato into the bowl of water and picking up another. After a moment she felt him move away, and she breathed a tiny, imperceptible sigh of relief.
“Come in for drinks when you’re finished,” he said suddenly. “We may as well try to behave like reasonable adults as long as you’re here.”
As a graceful invitation it still lacked a lot, but Molly found herself suddenly hopeful.
“What are you looking so happy about all of a sudden, missy?” Mrs. Morse demanded of her as she bustled back into the kitchen. “You win the lottery or something?”
Molly shrugged, hiding her face. She knew perfectly well that her reaction to his slight mellowing was all out of proportion, but it didn’t matter. She had learned one thing about her loss of memory that she didn’t find very comforting.
She might have forgotten names and faces and people and events, but she hadn’t forgotten emotions. She cared about her husband, quite desperately, and his feelings toward her were at best decidedly lukewarm, at times bordering on hatred. But his partial civility tonight was a start. She began humming a tuneless little hum.
“You’d better let me finish those,” Mrs. Morse offered after a few minutes, “and go in and get yourself a drink. I can take care of the rest. Thanks for the help.”
She wanted to go find Patrick. To test out this new, inexplicable feeling. She wanted to stay in the kitchen, hidden away like a latter-day Cinderella. She squared her shoulders. “Any time.”
Patrick was sitting in front of the fire, a glass in his hand, staring thoughtfully into space. He frowned when he saw her, and she firmly controlled a strong desire to run back upstairs, away from his obvious disapproval. Instead she smiled shyly.
No reaction. Since he didn’t seem about to move, she poured herself a glass of the cranberry juice that seemed reserved for her and went to a seat near the fire. Near him. His eyes were fastened on her now, and she wondered what he was thinking. Probably comparing her to Lisa, she thought, and she knew who would come out ahead in that little competition.
“Why did you marry me?” she asked quietly, tucking her feet up under her. “Was it only for the money?”
He jumped, and his drink splashed onto his jeans. “Why do you ask?” he countered gruffly.
“We weren’t in love, were we?”
“No, not at all,” he answered after a moment. Whether he thought she was lying about her memory or not, he’d obviously decided to give her the benefit of the doubt. For now. “It seemed like the logical thing to do at the time. It was what my father wanted, and you were always eager to please my father.”
“Were you? Eager to please your father, that is?”
“No,” he said flatly. “I spent most of my life going out of my way to drive him crazy. We were both too strong willed. He only had to decide something for me to take the opposite view.”
“Then if your father thought we should get married, why did you give in?”
His smile was wintry cold in the dim light. “My father was more adept than most at getting his own way, even beyond the grave. He left his place to me, of course. I was his only child, his heir. But he left the majority of the money to you. Hadn’t you wondered where it came from? Part of my father’s twisted sense of humor. He knew I needed the money to keep this place going, and you needed a home. It seemed an obvious solution, and I decided to be practical for once. He was dead—there was no need to rebel against him anymore.”
Molly stared at him, appalled. “Didn’t I expect to fall in love at some point?” she asked a bit breathlessly. “Why in heaven’s name would I agree to many you?”
He shrugged. “You didn’t share your thoughts on the subject with me at the time. You always used to love this place—you said it was the only real home you’d ever known. And you loved my father. You wanted what he wanted.”
He leaned back, staring into the fire. “He left the estate that way on purpose, you know. From the moment you came here he was determined that sooner or later we’d get married. Perfect blood lines, he’d decided, and once Father decided something there was no talking him out of it. He wanted to breed thoroughbred grandchildren the way he bred thoroughbred horses.”
“But we didn’t.”
“Didn’t what?” he said in a rough voice.
“Breed perfect grandchildren.”
His laugh was short and mirthless. “Neither of us were in the mood. Don’t worry, Molly, we won’t have to suffer much longer from our mistake, I can promise you that. As soon as the divorce comes through you can take all your money and leave.”
“And how will you support Winter’s Edge?” she asked. “Or is your future wife rich enough to provide you with the capital you need? It must be convenient, finding wealthy women willing to marry and support you in the style to which you seem accustomed.” Her voice was bitter with an old, forgotten hurt.
