Fire Along the Sky (27 page)

“No,” she said sharply. “My brother is well.”

Daniel's letter,
she thought then.
I never even read the copy of his letter that Gabriel made
. And:
What is the matter with me?

“But news, then. A letter from your mother?”

She raised her chin to glare at him and saw that he was not laughing at her, and in fact that he was angry. It was in his eyes, the way he narrowed them at her, and in the flush on his cheeks, and the lines that bracketed his mouth. He was angry and trying not to be.

“And if I had a letter from home, what of it?” she said, angry too, but at herself. “I was foolish to come here, and I'll go now.”

He stepped back suddenly, released her from the cage he had made with his body.

“I'll see you home.”

Then the tears did come, great hot tears streaming down her face that could not be denied or hidden and still she turned away, pressed her face to the rough wall and shuddered.

Simon Ballentyne put a hand on her shoulder and pulled her to his chest and there was no hope for her then. The sobs came in great breaking waves, and through all of it he held her gently and stroked her head and spoke, slow kind words, words he might have used to comfort a grieving child, a beloved sister, a friend, and that made the tears come all the harder so that she shook with them.

When the worst had passed he led her to the bench against the tile oven and sat down with her there in the soothing warmth.

“Tell me,” he said.

She told him all of it, in words that first came slow and halting and then in a great rush. She told about the terrible things her sister had lived through, the story of the hollow lake and the nephew she had never even seen, and then she told him about Nicholas, winding her fingers in the fabric of her skirt as the story pushed its way out.

He interrupted her only once, to ask was this the same Jemima who had caused such trouble for her sister Hannah over the years? And when Lily told him yes, exactly, Nicholas Wilde who would have married her but for his invalid wife—dead now only two months—had instead married
that
Jemima Southern.

And I worried he might be dead.
Lily said those words and stopped short, distraught but not distraught enough to say the terrible thing that came to mind next:
Would that he were. Better to know him dead
.

As he might be, of course. Perhaps they had hanged him already. Though she could not imagine him doing Cookie or anyone else real harm, a judge might see things differently. He could be hanging from the gallows at this very moment, and Jemima beside him.

The weeping began again, this time springing up from a different place: horror and shame at herself, that some part of her should like that idea.

Simon produced a handkerchief and she took it thankfully, pressed it to her face and bent forward to press her forehead to her knees, cursing herself and still unable to stop.

She felt his hand on her back, his touch light and without demand; nothing there but comfort. She straightened suddenly and spoke to him, her face turned away.

“I shouldn't have burdened you with my problems,” she said. “I'd like to go home now.”

“Would you?” he asked, and she heard something else in his voice now, surprise or even amusement.

A ripple of irritation moved up her spine. “Yes. I want to go home.”

“Look me in the eye and say that.”

“No.” She shook her head. “I won't. I can't.”

“And why not?” Simon Ballentyne asked.

“Because my face is swollen and red and—”

He laughed out loud then, and the anger came over her as suddenly and forcefully as the tears had come earlier. She stood, and he took her hand and pulled her down again.

“Ach, Lily,” he said, rubbing his forehead against her cheek. “You'll be the death of me, but I'll die with a smile on my face.”

She tried to pull away and found that she didn't really want to; in the back of her mind she heard not her mother but Curiosity:
Don't rise to the man's bait, girl, unless you got a mind to play the game out
. But it was such a relief, to have said it all out loud, to have somebody hear the words that rang like great bells in her head and now might be quiet long enough for her to sleep through the night.

“What have I done to you?” she asked, combative and liking the feel of that.

“You come to my door in the dead of night—”

“It's hardly six of the evening!”

“—and weep on my chest about a faithless lover—”

“And my sister!”

“And your sister,” he agreed, more seriously now. “And no one would begrudge you those tears, for it's the saddest tale I've heard in a very long time. But it seems to me that all these tears are less for your poor sister than that ignorant fool Wilde—”

She drew away in her outrage, or tried to, sputtering and fumbling for something to say that would make sense and put him in his place all at once. “I am so sorry to have inconvenienced you with my little problems—”

“—and now you want to run off before I've said my piece.”

“Oh.” She stopped struggling. “What is it you wanted to say?”

He straightened and sat away and looked at her, as though she were a horse he might buy, if the price were right. That thought made Lily want to stand up again and run away, but he pressed her hand with his own and she settled, uneasily.

“He's a fool, is your Nicholas Wilde—”

She started to pull away but his grip was firm on her, unrelenting, distinctly comforting.

“—for he might have come here to claim you and take you home and instead he let himself be seduced by this harridan Jemima Southern.”

“Jemima Kuick,” Lily said sullenly.

“Jemima Wilde,” he corrected her in turn.

Lily flared up at him. “You don't know him. You can't know him—”

And neither do I, for he married Jemima Kuick.
The thought robbed her of the urge to defend Nicholas and, oddly enough, made her even angrier at Simon.

“I know a man by his actions, and so do you,” he said, undaunted. “You are your father's daughter, after all.”

She could not deny this truth, and so she ducked her head and swallowed the words that came to mind, the stories she might have told of Nicholas Wilde's kindness and generosity and tenderness. His intelligence, his dreams for the future, the love and skill that made his apple trees flourish and produce such wonderful fruit.

The man who married Jemima Kuick.

“So you were mistaken in him. And so what I have to say is this: it's a good thing he married another, for you deserve better, Lily Bonner.”

“Like you, you mean.”

“Aye,” said Simon Ballentyne, meeting her gaze without flinching. “I'd be a far better husband to you than Nicholas Wilde ever could be.”

Lily was suddenly very weary, her head aching with it. “You know that for a fact,” she said bitterly.

“And so do you, lass, if you'd only admit it to yourself. For where did you turn in your time of need, but to me?”

She could not meet his eyes, but he solved this problem by catching her chin in his fingers and raising her face to his.

“Where did you turn, Lily Bonner?”

Her mouth worked, but nothing came out.

“I can see ye need some reminding.”

He kissed her, his mouth trailing along her tear-swollen cheek to her mouth. And this was why she had come, of course. Because she wanted Simon Ballentyne to put his arms around her and comfort her and kiss her as he was kissing her now, with such purpose and warmth and sincerity.

When he broke the kiss he was breathing hard. Gooseflesh had run down her back and arms and all over her body, leaving little pools of warmth.

“Where did you come?” he whispered and then kissed her again, openmouthed and warm and deep, before she could even think of answering. He pulled her into his lap and cradled her there and kissed her until Lily thought her skin must surely be on fire, and then when he lifted his head she nodded, weakly.

“To you,” she said.

“Aye,” said Simon. “And why is that?”

The question took her by surprise, and this time she really didn't have an answer, at least not a clear one. “Because you're—” She hesitated.

“Aye?”

“My friend.”

He drew in a breath then and put his forehead against hers. “And that's all there is to it?”

“No,” said Lily. “I came because I thought you might—I hoped you might—” And her courage failed her after all.

“What? What do you want of me?” His arms were tense around her, and she realized with some part of her mind that he was frightened; Simon Ballentyne was frightened of what she might say.

“I want you to take me home.” And then, quickly: “To Paradise. Home to Lake in the Clouds.”

He held her away from him. She could see the thoughts rushing behind his eyes as he calculated and came to some conclusion.

“You want me to take you home. Why not your friend Mr. Bump?”

Lily shifted uncomfortably on his lap. “I don't like to ask him—”

“Because he would say no.”

She shrugged. “He came to Canada to find someone, and he won't leave until he's done that.”

“And you won't wait for your brother to come back from Québec because he'd say no too. What makes you think I'll do what Luke will not?”

Now the whole thing sounded so very childish that she was embarrassed and ashamed, and more than that, she saw in Simon's face that she had offended him.

She said, “I hoped you might understand.”

He studied her for the length of a dozen heartbeats and then he tipped her off his lap and back onto the bench, stood abruptly, pushed his hands through his hair and walked away from her, across the room in a few strides, to turn and glare.

“Have you no idea how I feel about you, Lily? Are you so cruel?”

Lily felt herself flush, but she made herself hold his gaze. “I know how you feel about me.”

A look passed over his face, comprehension and disappointment. He rubbed it away with his palm. “You still love the idiot with the apple trees.” He said it matter-of-factly, as he might have told her that she had dropped a glove.

“And what does it matter if I do?” she said dully. “Most likely they hanged him already.”

Simon let out a surprised grunt. “Do you think him guilty of the murder, then?”

“No!” Lily's head came up sharply. “He wouldn't. He isn't capable of something like that.”

“Men are capable of anything,” Simon said. “But in this case I tend to think you may be right. He's a coward, is your Nicholas Wilde, love him as you may.”

Lily turned her face away, for what was there to say to that? Simon Ballentyne loved her and wanted her to love him back. It was there in his eyes and the set of his shoulders and the way his hands were fisted at his sides: he was jealous. And with cause.

“Alive or dead, Nicholas is lost to me,” she said. “I know that.”

“No,” said Simon Ballentyne. “You don't know it, not really. You want me to take you back home so you can see for yourself that he lied to you. And you hope he didn't.”

She hadn't admitted that much to herself, but once the words were said there was no way she could deny them, to herself or to Simon.

He crossed the room to her with such a furious look on his face that she drew back in fear. But he took her by the arms and raised her up to him and kissed her once, hard.

“I'll take you home,” he said. “But I've a condition of my own. Once you've seen your precious Nicholas Wilde and learned the truth about him, you'll marry me.”

Lily studied his face for a moment, the fierce purpose there and the anger he held in check. It was a dare, and one she might well lose. She could agree to this and find herself bound to Simon Ballentyne for the rest of her life. The idea felt so odd that she wasn't sure what to do with it.

“But what of your family . . . connections? What about Angus Moncrieff?”

He made a face at that, and she saw doubt flicker across his face. He was thinking of Luke, who had made his concerns known, and of her own father, whose reaction he could not predict. Nathaniel Bonner might feel as strongly, or more strongly, than Luke did about such a connection.

“Were this Scotland, then aye, that would be a problem. But your father is a fair man, is he no?”

“Yes,” Lily said. “But he has a long memory too, and the things Moncrieff did—”

“Are unforgivable,” Simon finished for her. “But I hardly knew the man, and I'm nothing like him. Your brother can attest to that. I'll do what must be done to convince your father that I'm worthy of you. Do you doubt that I'm able?”

“No,” Lily said, quite honestly. “I don't doubt that you could convince him, though it might take some time.”

“Well then, I'm waiting for your answer, Lily Bonner. And let me say this: I'll no ask again.”

“Yes,” she said, and started to hear her own voice so firm and unwavering.

He looked at her hard. “You'll marry me, then?”

“If . . . if things are as they seem at home. And if my father and my mother agree. Yes.”

In her relief to have this settled—to know that she was going home—Lily relaxed against Simon and felt him tremble, his body responding to hers in a way that was unmistakable, and anything but unpleasant. For a moment they stayed just that way, eye to eye.

“I must take you back to Iona,” he said, and set her down on the bench with a thump. Then he sat next to her, breathing as hard as a man who has run a mile uphill.

Unable to meet his eye, she examined her own hands. “But there are details to discuss.”

That earned her a sharp and suspicious look. “Details,” he echoed.

“Well, yes,” she said. “When we'll leave and the rest of it . . .” Her voice trailed away, because he was grinning at her. Defiance was the only weapon she had to hand, and so she used it. “And it's really very early, still.”

“Ah,” said Simon Ballentyne, and pulled her back into his lap as if she weighed no more than a feather pillow. “It's talk you want? Are you sure of that?”

She struggled a little, and in response he held her tighter. “Must you be so . . . so . . .”

“Honest?”

And he kissed her before she could find the words to admit he was right.