He turned on her savagely. “She is not my future wife, damn you. And it’s none of your business how I support this place. I can manage without your help, without your money. If my father hadn’t been so damned good at playing games it never would have been your money.” He took a long pull on his drink.
“That was the only reason I married you?” she asked, unable to leave it alone. There was something more there, something he wasn’t telling her.
He looked up, a faint, cynical expression in his eyes. “Well, there was the fact that you’d had a crush on me since you were sixteen. That may have had something to do with it.”
“I was in love with you?” she said in a hushed voice.
“No!” It was a sharp protest. “You were a lonely adolescent who thought I was the perfect romantic hero. You used to follow me around like a lost puppy dog.”
She could feel color flood her cheeks, and she bit her lip. This was her fault, she’d pushed him. But she wished he’d shown just a trace more compassion. “How very embarrassing for you,” she said faintly. “I must have put quite a damper on your love life.”
“Not particularly,” he said, and she couldn’t be sure what he was referring to.
“And when did I get over this embarrassing infatuation?” she asked lightly.
He stared at her, cool and removed. “On our wedding day,” he said flatly. “I’m getting sick of nostalgia, Molly. Either be quiet or go away.”
She stared at him out of shadowed eyes, wondering whether throwing her drink at him might help. She retreated into silence, settling back against the cushions with every appearance of unconcern as she concentrated on the dancing flames in the fireplace. Even Beastie’s presence by her side was more torment than comfort, reminding her how alone she was in this place.
She glanced across the room at Patrick, unable to help herself. He was as cold as ice, and she wondered whether spring would ever touch the inhabitants of the old stone house, or whether they’d remain forever trapped in the icy winter.
Conversation at dinner that night was stilted. Uncle Willy was his usual slightly drunken self, and decided to make up for his previous rudeness by showering Molly with effusive compliments, constantly refilling her cranberry juice until she felt bloated, trying to force vodka on her, generally being attentive and obnoxious. She would have hated it but for one interesting fact. All Willy’s overbearing attentions seemed to have a most satisfying effect on Patrick, just as Toby’s had the night before.
Her husband might not want her, but he sure as hell didn’t want anyone else to touch her, even as elderly a lecher as Uncle Willy. He stared at them with a sour expression, and she knew be wanted to send her up to bed as he had the previous nights.
But she had no intention of behaving like a naughty little girl. Her behavior was exemplary, annoying him even further, and it was well past eleven when she finally left them. She had learned a lot that day, and had a lot more to learn. She knew where her money came from, and she had a fairly good idea of why Patrick had married her. Not because of the money, but out of pity for the poor infatuated teenager. The notion was intensely painful.
She fell into bed feeling waterlogged and exhausted, and dreamed of Patrick, staring at her out of brooding eyes.
It shouldn’t have bothered him, Patrick thought. That lost expression in her eyes, when he’d thrown her infatuation back in her face. If she really couldn’t remember it, why should it have embarrassed her?
But suddenly he remembered what it was like. He’d just come back home after two years away, his most recent exodus the result of his worst parental battle to date. He’d gone places, seen things, done things he still hated to think about, and he felt dirty, cruel and worthless. Until he’d looked down into the sixteen-year-old eyes of his father’s latest stray and seen a shining adoration he’d never deserved.
He couldn’t resist it, as much as he tried. She worshipped the ground he walked on, even taking his part in battles with his formidable father.
And instead of further inciting Jared Winters’s wrath, she’d merely made his father retreat with a crafty smile.
She was pretty, she was smart, she was brave, and she was unbearably loyal. If he’d been ten years younger. If she’d been someone other than his father’s handpicked consort...
As it was, he’d ignored his zipper, treated her like the younger sister he’d never had, and kept his hands to himself. Each year it grew harder, and each year he was more determined to keep her at a distance. And each year his father’s goading and Molly’s innocent adoration eroded his determination.
He gave in, at last. After his father’s sudden death from a heart attack, after the will was read and she was crying, desperate to make him take all that money that she’d never wanted. He’d come up with the obvious, logical answer, one that would salve her pride, support the expense of Winter’s Edge farm, and please the ghost of his father.
Not to mention the fact that he wanted it, wanted her so badly that it was eating him alive.
He thought he’d gotten over that during their ten months of married life. She’d done her best to cure him, but he should have known better. All be had to do was look down into those innocent, green-blue eyes, and it all came rushing back.
But this time he wouldn’t give in. He could keep the place going without the substantial amount his father had left her. A little economy, a lot of hard work, and things would be fine.
That was just what he needed. To work so hard he wouldn’t have time to think. To remember. To want what he couldn’t have.
To work so hard he’d be free of her. At last.
Seven
At six-thirty the next morning, Molly leaned over the side of her bed and threw up all over the fluffy white carpet. She rolled onto her back with bemused satisfaction. At least now something would have to be done about this awful room, she thought, and was sick again. She was too weak and dizzy to even try to make it to the bathroom, and she leaned back with a throbbing head against the immense pillows that adorned her bed.
There was no longer any way she could ignore the inevitable. She ate all the time, slept too much, and threw up every morning. Put that on top of a memory loss and the personal history of a slut, and there was only one logical explanation.
