Matthew’s breath came out through his teeth in a hiss.
Southwood Hospital was an institution for the mentally unstable.
“It’s not what you think,” Grayson added.
“Isn’t it?” Matthew asked coldly.
“There are doctors there who are experts in head trauma.” He shifted his weight. “I took the liberty of talking to a Dr. Samuels last week.”
Matthew’s throat tightened as if a vise circled his neck, but he didn’t speak. Couldn’t.
“And the fact is,” Grayson went on in a reasonable tone, unaware of the turmoil he was causing, “as Dr. Samuels and I discussed, if your head wound was severe, it is possible that you’ve sustained a trauma to the brain.” He hesitated. “Which would account for this erratic behavior of yours.”
“I am not insane!” Matthew snarled, hating the shake he could hear in his voice. “And despite what little children think, I am not a monster. I might look like one, but I’m not.”
“This has nothing to do with your face. Look at you!” Grayson exploded, gesturing to Matthew’s appearance. “You’re a mess. This place is a mess. You lock yourself away, won’t let your own mother know what is going on with you when she inquires. What would you call it? Normal behavior?”
Matthew counted silently, concentrating. “I did not sustain a severe head injury. I have been to plenty of doctors, and they all say the same thing. I just need time to heal,” he lied, unwilling to believe anything else but that he would, given time—just as all the doctors had said in the beginning. And until then he needed to keep to himself.
Grayson sighed. “I am just trying to help.”
The thick haze of Matthew’s fury began to fade. He knew that his family was only thinking about what was best for him. But he couldn’t allow their best intentions to land him in a place like Southwood Hospital.
He had heard about the haunting screams and wild shouting or, perhaps worse yet, the vacant stares. Matthew’s good hand curled into a fist at his side. He would not end up in a place like that.
“I don’t need your help,” Matthew said, forcing a calm he didn’t feel into his voice. “I ‘m fine. Beyond which, you mistake an aversion to parading out in society and having people stare at me like I’m some sort of curiosity, such as me being a lunatic.”
“I never said you were a lunatic!”
“Of course you did, just not in so many words. And isn’t that what you think?”
Grayson looked directly at Matthew. “In truth, I don’t know what to think.”
The regret and sincerity on his brother’s face sent a shiver of foreboding down Matthew’s spine.
Was he crazy? Was his brain deteriorating? Was that what the doctors had really meant by deterioration of the nerves and tissue?
He thought of the way he had to concentrate to eat a simple meal without spilling food like a child. He thought of the way he sometimes couldn’t get his hand to work correctly, or the blinding light in his head. He did feel crazy sometimes. Crazed with anger and fury and pain.
A soul-deep shudder began to work its way through his body. He wanted his brother gone.
Grayson ran his hands through his dark hair. “God, what a debacle.” He strode to the mantel, where a fire was burning itself out. “It used to be so good. The three of us, bound together.”
“All for one and one for all,” Matthew whispered, suddenly remembering carefree childhood days of hope and glory, nothing more taxing than adventure and fun.
“Yes, the Three Musketeers. Always standing up for each other.”
“Always in trouble.”
Grayson chuckled. “Speak for yourself. You were always in trouble. You and Lucas. Though I’m convinced that it was that best friend of yours, Reynolds, who was the ringleader of it all.”
Matthew studied Grayson. The eldest son had worked hard at staying out of trouble but somehow had always managed to make their father angry. As with so many things, Matthew had taken his life and all the golden glory of it in stride, never questioning, never thankful. Taking it for granted.
He didn’t know then how easily it could be swept away.
One false move. One tiny slip. And all the world came crashing down as if his life hadn’t been any more real than a flimsy house of cards.
What stores of energy had gotten him this far in the day dwindled. Despite the fact that Grayson was still there, Matthew couldn’t stand any longer. As casually as he could, he sat down on the divan, pressing his head back, closing his eyes. Without warning, memories swirled, leaping like flames in the fireplace. He thought of the intensely gratifying article that had run in the Boston Herald nearly two years ago. He had reread it just the other day, stared at it for hours, remembering the grand gala given in his honor that had followed the article. But it hadn’t been the gala that he had cared about. Only the reason for the event had mattered.
He felt the strain sink out of his body, his back relaxing into the thick cushions, despite the fact that he told himself to get up and deal with his brother. But the ease was too enticing, beckoning him down.
“Matthew?”
“Matthew!”
He shook his head with effort, realizing he must have drifted to sleep. Hell.
His eyes flashed open, and he nearly jumped out of his skin when he came face-to-face not with Grayson but with Finnea Winslet, who peered close, her eyes narrowed with worry.
“Is something wrong?” she demanded. “Are you ill?”
He didn’t move a muscle as his mind tried to make sense of where he was and why she was there. “No, I am not ill,” he stated. “And yes, something is wrong. You are here.”
Finnea’s brow eased and she smiled. “Good. I’m relieved to see you’re back to normal. Ill-humored and pesky as a mayfly.”
“Just yesterday you said you took back all the unkind things you thought of me.”
She tossed him a crooked grin. “I take that back, too.”
She walked away, an odd green-and-gold gown billowing around her ankles. He watched despite himself, feeling the intensity that she always managed to make him feel. He remembered all too well the shape of her long legs that now hid beneath her skirts. He remembered the feel of her abdomen, gently curved beneath the palm of his hand. Remembered the smell of her wild hair and golden skin, like jasmine just after a rain. But then, as always, he remembered the rest of that day.
When he found her in the wreckage, she had been unconscious and covered in blood. Anyone who could walk away did, disappearing into the thick jungle with a man who said he could lead them out. Matthew had been able to walk but he hadn’t been able to leave Finnea. He didn’t understand then or now the feeling that came over him—the desire, the yearning. The need to save her.
He explained it away as simple decency. A debt owed—to Janji, if no one else.
“Where’s my brother?” he asked caustically, looking around the study for Grayson.
“If you mean that stern-faced, stiff-upper-lip sort that I saw slamming out your front door minutes ago, I’d say he’s gone. Looking none too pleased, I might add.” She ran her fingers through the long tassels of silk that hung from the drapery, and shot him a bemused smile. “You have a way with people, don’t you?”
He only muttered and dropped his head back against the divan. “Why are you here, Miss Winslet?”
She didn’t answer at first, and just when he would have asked again, she said, “I need a favor.”
He opened one eye. “Why do I get the feeling that I’m not going to like this?”
“Now, now. Don’t go jumping to wrong conclusions again. It’s nothing much, really.” She hesitated, running her fingers over the hand-carved ridge of a hardback chair, before blurting out, “I need you to teach me the ways of Boston.”
Chapter Six
Matthew came off the divan as if a lightning bolt had shot down his spine. “What?”
Finnea’s eyes glimmered a deep, excited green. “It’s the perfect solution. It came to me last night while I was lying on the floor… .” She blushed. “I mean the bed, the bed on the floor. Anyway, you know the rules of these Americans. You know which spoon must be used and when. You could teach me the workings of this difficult place!”
“No.” He said the word simply, forcefully, sweat beading on his forehead. He would not teach her. He would not be entwined in her life. Would not feel that frantic urgency to save her.
But then she touched him unexpectedly, her fingers running along the scar on his face. Her fingertips sent fire racing through his body. Fire, frustration. And yearning.
“Does it hurt?” she whispered.
The words spun in his head. It hurt nearly every second. “No,” he said simply. “I give it little thought.”
She looked at him. Into him. As if trying to determine if he had lied.
Left off balance by the concern in her face, he fought the insane urge to turn his lips into her palm. He wanted to hold her, bury his head against her breast. Tell her about the pain, about the fury. Tell her that his family thought he was going insane.
“So will you help me?” she asked.
His eyes narrowed at her sudden change of subject. “What?”
“Will you help me, show me the ways of these people? I can learn, really,” she whispered, the words emphatic.
It was her tone that snagged at him, not the words, making him think that she was trying hard to convince herself but not succeeding.
“You need an etiquette teacher, Miss Winslet, not me.”
“But no one can know that I’m doing this! Not my mother, not my brother. When I arrive at my next party I want to be perfect. I want to know what to do. No one will be able to laugh at me.” She looked at him hard. “Besides, you said I could learn. You said you believed in me.” There was a flash of darkness in her eyes before she scoffed, “Or didn’t you mean it?”
As always, Matthew hated the look in her eyes. Only minutes before she had been charging through life, excited about the prospects for the future. But he knew Bostonians weren’t so easily swayed. He needed to tell her that it would take more than learning to use the right spoon for this city to accept her.
But the words wouldn’t come.
“You learning and me teaching you are not the same issue,” he equivocated.
He saw the relief, saw the flicker of hope rekindle in her eyes as she laughed. She turned away in a twirl, her strange gossamer skirts billowing like waves of green and gold.
But her smile trailed off into startled surprise when she suddenly noticed the broken glass and overturned furniture. She stood for a moment before she tilted her head, then shrugged, as if finding a room in such disarray was not such an odd occurrence.
“It would be pretty in here if it wasn’t for the mess,” she stated.
“I hardly think ‘pretty’ is the appropriate word to describe a man’s study.”
She glanced back at him as if amused, seeming to give no notice to his disheveled appearance. “All right, it would be handsome in here if there wasn’t a mess. Do you feel better now?”
A muscle began to tick in his jaw. “No, I do not feel better, Miss Winslet. And if you truly want so desperately to fit in with Bostonians, you’d best learn that ladies do not call at a gentleman’s house for any reason, much less do they come to call alone. You could be seen by anyone, including my brother.”
She raised a brow at him, and he could just imagine the thoughts that were running through her head. He sounded like an arrogant fool. Not so long ago he would have laughed aloud at such dribble coming out of any man’s mouth. But that was before. Now he wanted her gone, and he’d say whatever was necessary to get the deed done.
“Well, there you are,” she offered. “Your brother didn’t see me, so luck was on my hip.”
“Hip?”
“Yes, you know. Your American saying.”
Matthew hung his head. “Side. Luck was on my side is the saying.”
“Hip, side? Whichever. With a bit more good fortune it’s possible that before long Bostonians will be shaking hands with a bit of meaning and eating nasturtiums at fancy meals….”
Without warning, she grew flustered, her words trailing off. She seemed to fidget. But she got ahold of herself and raised her chin in that defiant way she had about her. “I never thanked you for… eating the flower.”
Matthew groused. “It was nothing.”
“It was not nothing. It was terribly kind.”
Before he could respond, she turned away, an odd assortment of metal bracelets jangling on her wrists as she made her way through the wreck in his study. She picked up a statue of George Washington and studied the bronze face closely. Matthew watched, mesmerized in spite of his determination not to be, as she walked the stately figure along the mantel like a toy. Suddenly bored, she returned it to its spot and continued her inspection of the room and his belongings.
“Miss Winslet, I’m not in the mood for this.”
“I thought that is what a woman is supposed to say to a man.”
Matthew raised a brow, the scar pulling in surprise. “I’m not in the mood for that either.”
Finnea sliced him a castigating look, then turned her attention to a hand-etched crystal egg. “I wasn’t offering.”
Matthew felt a deep growl rumble in his chest. “God save me from meddling brothers and women. All I want is a little peace and quiet. Is that too much to ask?” he muttered grimly.
“Apparently so. Enough of your games. I’m busy. It’s time you leave.”
“I can’t. Not until you agree to teach me.”
“I will not teach you, Miss Winslet,” he stated, his patience strained. “But if I were, I would start with a lecture on pushy women.”
“Then you’d better trot on over to Adwina Raines’s house, as she could certainly benefit from a lecture or two,” she stated, leaning over to peer at a quaintly built wooden clock.
Matthew gritted his teeth. “Someone should tell you that part of the fine art of being a lady in Boston is knowing when you have been insulted so you can act incensed.”
Still bent at the waist, she glanced back at him curiously, an errant strand of silky red hair escaping from her loose chignon. “Have you insulted me?”
“Three times since you got here.”
“All right, consider me incensed,” she stated, then jumped back with delight when the cuckoo popped out of the clock. “How clever! I’ve never seen such a thing!”