Night in Eden (34 page)

She shook her head. "Oliver, I am not going back. Don't you understand? I've made a new life for myself here. The person I was before... she doesn't exist anymore."

He sucked in a deep breath, trying to calm himself, trying to get a grip on the situation. "You're still angry with me." He turned toward the window, his fingers
playing nervously with the chain of his fob. "About Flory Dickens. I can explain—"

"Can you? Why don't you try explaining instead why you stayed with those smugglers for so long?"

He swung back around in surprise. "Smugglers? Who said anything about smugglers?"

"What did you expect me to think? That you were picked up by a French naval ship that just happened to take advantage of a dark, moonless night to slip into Cadgwith Cove and have a look around?"

Her nostrils fairly flared with her scorn. Christ. She had always been a bit of a shrew, but the past two years had definitely not improved her. "So what would you have had me do?" he asked sardonically. "Drown, rather than consort with such an unsavory group of rescuers?"

"You didn't need to stay with them!"

"Oh, I didn't, did I?" He took an angry step toward her. "Well, let me tell you, smuggling has become a damned lucrative business since Napoleon imposed his so-called blockade. You know the kind of debt I was in."

"I
didn't
know. But I certainly found out, didn't I? Did it never occur to you to wonder about what was happening to your family while you were off in France recouping your fortunes?"

He pursed his lips and blew out his breath in a long sigh. "I had no way of knowing you had been charged with my death, Bryony."

"You bloody well knew you had left nothing but debts behind you! Cadgwith Cove House was seized and sold before I was even brought to trial."

When had she started swearing like that? He couldn't remember ever having heard Bryony say anything more violent than "heavens."

"It probably would have been seized anyway." He raised his glass and downed its contents with one flick of his wrist. "If I hadn't gone over that cliff, like as not I'd have ended up in debtors' prison. I was all rolled up, Bryony. At a standstill. All to pieces.

Besides," he added, reaching to pour himself another drink, "I knew that with me out of the way, your Uncle Edward would take care of you."

"Uncle Edward? My Uncle Edward hasn't talked to me since I ran away to marry you. The only time I saw him was the day he came to the prison to take Madeline from me."

He didn't like to think about her and Madeline in prison. But there was no reason for her to look at him as if it were all his fault, because it wasn't. She was always trying to make him feel guilty for things that weren't his fault. He felt a spurt of self-righteous anger, and slammed the decanter back down. "I didn't know you were being transported, damn it, so don't make it sound as if I should have done something to stop it."

She looked at him with a queer expression on her face. "I was eight months pregnant with your child when I was put on the
Indispensable,
Oliver."

He stared at her and swallowed hard, unable to speak.

"It was a boy, Oliver. You had a son. I named him Philip, after your father. He had dark hair, like me, but the most laughing gray eyes you'd ever want to see. He was such a sweet baby, even though he was never really well, even though he lived only..." Her voice cracked, and she had to suck in a shuddering breath before she could continue. "Even though he lived only five months. How much thought did you give to him, Oliver? How much thought did you give to any of us, while you were running your French brandy and tumbling your French whores?"

"Bryony... I'm sorry. But it wasn't my fault."

He would have taken her in his arms, but she wrenched away from him. "Whose fault was it, then?
Whose?"

"Well, it was your fault, for starters, damn it! You're the one who knocked me off that bloody cliff. All right! Maybe I should have made more of an effort to find out what was happening to you. Maybe I should have come back sooner. But did you ever ask yourself why I didn't?

"You've always been so bloody quick to criticize me as a husband. Did you ever stop to think about what kind of a wife you make? Look at you," he said, his eyes sweeping over her. "I came rushing out here, expecting to save you from some kind of hell. Well, you don't look like you've been in hell, Bryony. You don't look like you've had such a bad time of it at all."

"I have been through the worst kind of hell."

"What?" he jeered. "Are you trying to tell me you haven't enjoyed being Hayden St. John's whore?"

Her head jerked as if he'd slapped her. "Hayden St. John is my husband."

"No." He seized her by the shoulders. "He is not your husband, damn it. I am."

He saw the fear and anger in her eyes and cursed himself for being so quick-tempered. "Oh Jesus, Bryony, I'm sorry." He tried again to pull her into his arms. "You don't know how it has torn me up inside, thinking about what you've been through these last two years. I know you think I'm a selfish, heedless bastard, but I... I love you so much. I know we fight, and you make me as mad as hell at you, and sometimes I don't even want to be around you. But I
love
you, Bryony. You're all I have. I'm nothing without you; you know that. You're more to me than just my wife. I can't lose you and survive it. I can't. And I am so afraid I have lost you."

She held herself aloof, but he saw a worried frown line form between her brows. "Oliver, please try to understand. Whatever we once had, it is gone. You—" She broke off, her head turning toward the street.

Oliver heard it, too. The quick
thump-thump
of small feet pounding across the veranda. A young man's harassed voice, calling, "Come back here, you little—"

The outside door burst open, and Madeline hurtled into the room. She was wearing a pale blue muslin gown covered with a pinafore that once might have been white but was now dirty and crumpled and decorated with what looked suspiciously like hay.

The dark youth hard on her heels stopped short at the threshold. "I'm that sorry, Bryony. She musta hid herself in the back of the cart before we left Jindabyne and waited till my back was turned to climb out. I didn't see her till she was already on the veranda."

"It's all right, Quincy," Bryony said, her worried gaze on the child. "Leave her."

The youth cast Bryony a sharp look, then left.

Madeline stood stiffly just inside the door, her chest heaving, her eyes narrowing as she stared at Oliver. "Is it true? Are you my papa?"

Oliver raised his brows in mock astonishment. "Can this be Madeline?" He walked over and squatted beside the child to bring himself down to her level. "Why, you've grown so big." He cupped her square chin with his palm. "And so pretty."

In his experience no female from two to ninety-two could resist a compliment and an admiring smile. Madeline giggled. But the delight faded quickly from her face, and she threw an angry, accusatory glare at her mother. "They told me my mama killed you."

He heard Bryony gasp. "Well, now," he said slowly, feeling his way carefully. "Your mama did hurt me pretty badly. So badly, in fact, that it was a while before I was well enough to come after you. But I am here now."

Oliver caught her just in time to keep her from flinging her dirty arms around his neck and ruining his new coat. "You won't go away and leave us again, will you, Papa? Say you'll never leave us again."

"I'll never go away and leave you again, darling." Over the little girl's head, his eyes sought Bryony's. "You are my daughter." The words might have been said to Madeline, but they were really directed at the child's mother. "No one has the right to take you away from me. You and I are going home, to Cornwall."

Oliver watched the color drain from Bryony's cheeks as the full meaning of his words hit her. Whatever the legalities of Bryony's marriage or remarriage, Oliver was
still Madeline's father and, as her father, his authority remained absolute. If he wanted to take the child back to Cornwall with him, then there was nothing Bryony could do to stop him. Bryony would either have to come, too, or lose her daughter forever.

The last two years might have changed Bryony, but Oliver knew nothing could ever have changed Bryony that much. It didn't matter how much she might imagine herself in love with Hayden St. John. She would never allow Madeline to be taken from her again.

He almost laughed out loud. He had won. And he hadn't even needed to tell her about Uncle Edward's money.

Bryony turned to Madeline. "Wait outside on the veranda, please."

"But—"

"Just do as you are told," said Bryony sharply, far more sharply than she'd meant to.

The child dragged reluctantly to the door. She depressed the latch slowly, then paused to throw a dirty look at her mother over her shoulder before she slipped outside.

Bryony spun around to face Oliver. "Why did you do that?"

He picked up his empty glass and carried it back to the tray. "Do what?"

"Promise to take her home, to stay with her. You know it is not going to happen."

"But it is going to happen." He picked up the Madeira and eased out the stopper. "You can stay here with your new husband if you like. But Madeline is going back to Cornwall with me."

A fierce pain stabbed Bryony's chest, a pain she recognized as bone-chilling, mind-numbing fear. "But... why?"

"Why?" He sloshed more wine into his glass. "Madeline is my daughter." He picked up the glass and pivoted around to face her. "My only surviving child. Of course I want to keep her with me."

Hatred welled up within Bryony, so raw and murderous that it almost choked her. "Don't bother." She
slashed the air in front of her with her hand, as if to wipe away his words. "You forget, Oliver, I know you. I still remember the time you told me that while you
liked
Madeline well enough, your affection for her was what you called a vague, general thing. It didn't specifically require her constant presence."

He sipped his wine slowly. "Did I say that?"

"Yes!"

"Perhaps I've changed."

"You've changed, all right. But not in that way." She looked at him through narrowed eyes. "Why do you want me back so badly? What could possibly be so important to you that you would use the threat of taking Madeline away from me to get it?"

He drained his glass and turned away to refill it. "You mistake, my dear. It is Madeline I want, not you. I am simply generous enough to tell you that you can come along, too, if you like."

An ugly, pounding silence descended on the room. "It's money, isn't it?" said Bryony.

He paused in the act of pouring himself another drink, the decanter suspended in the air.

"My God," she cried. "I was right! It is money. But what—how—"

He laughed softly and set the wine aside. "All right." He turned around to face her, the glass cradled in his palm. "I'll tell you. Why not? It's Uncle Edward."

Bryony frowned. "Uncle Edward?"

"He's dead. In a house fire, in London. Along with his dearly beloved wife, Eunice, and his only son and heir." Oliver leaned back against the table. "Quite tragic."

Bryony stared at him. "Richard, as well?" She had never been close to her cousin, but the idea of him dead was unsettling. She shook her head, confused. "What do you think, then? That Uncle Edward left all his money to me? That's ridiculous. He said I was dead to him."

"And so you were." Oliver took a slow sip of his wine. "It is Madeline who inherited everything."

Bryony gaped at him, too stunned for a moment even to react. "So that's why you want her—why you pretended to want me? For the
money?"

"Crudely put, but essentially accurate."

"Take it."

He straightened up, the smile wiped off his lips.
"What?"

"You heard me. Take the money. You can have it. Just go away and leave us in peace."

His lips curled back in a parody of a smile. "Very generous of you, my dear. Unfortunately, the money is not yours to give. It is Madeline's."

Bryony felt as if something were squeezing her chest, making it increasingly difficult for her to draw breath. "I will not let you take her," she said in a low, fierce voice.

"I am afraid you don't have much of a choice. You can come back to Cornwall with us. Or you can stay here with your new husband... and say good-bye to the child forever."

Neither of them heard the door to the veranda quietly open, or saw Madeline standing, wide-eyed, in the narrow gap, watching them.

Bryony stared at Oliver as if she were seeing him— really seeing him—for the first time. "I can't believe I was ever such a fool as to imagine myself in love with you," she said, her chin held high, every muscle in her body tight with revulsion. "I would rather go back to being a
convict
than ever be your wife again."

The boy slouched on the cart seat, his cabbage palm hat pulled low over his face.

"Quincy." Hayden's voice was pitched low, but it was only about three feet away from the boy's ear. Quincy's head shot up. His startled brown eyes met Hayden's narrow, angry ones, and he gulped.

"I ought to peel the hide off your back for this stunt," Hayden said, steadying his big bay gelding beside the cart. "Except I know you were only doing what she asked you to do. Where is she?"

Quincy jerked his head toward the hotel. "With that husband of hers. She had some idea that maybe she could talk him into just goin' away and leavin' her alone."

A sudden cry brought both men around. A small, golden-haired girl erupted out of one of the hotel rooms. She sped across the veranda and leapt down into the muddy street, narrowly missing being crushed beneath the trampling hooves of a wagon team that shied at the sight of her.

"Madeline!"

Hayden heard Bryony's scream even as he spurred his horse down the street. He scooped the kicking, crying child up into his arms, then rode back to the cart and dumped her in Quincy's lap. "Here, hold on to her."

He wheeled his horse around to find Bryony standing at the edge of the veranda, staring at him. She had her hands twisted together in her skirt, hugging her pregnant belly. A haunted look shadowed her eyes. He was mad as hell at her for coming into town like this, and he didn't doubt for a minute that his fury showed on his face. But nothing, not even Madeline's brush with the wagon, could explain that expression of shock and torment.

He swung out of the saddle and looped his reins several times around the veranda post. His spurs rasped against the stone as he stepped up onto the flagging. When he approached her, Bryony quickly turned her face to one side, as if she were afraid to meet his eyes, or as if—

His hand shot out, gripping her chin and jerking her head around. Her left cheek was swollen and already beginning to discolor.

He clamped his jaws together. "Wentworth did this to
you? Did he?" Hayden demanded again, harshly, when she refused to answer.

"Kindly remove your hands from my wife," said Wentworth.

Hayden turned slowly to find the younger man lounging against the open door, an ivory-handled malacca cane sliding back and forth between his long, slim fingers. Hayden's hand closed over Bryony's arm, moving her behind him. "I thought we went through all this yesterday," he said.

"That was yesterday. Today the lady has changed her mind."

Hayden swung back around, his angry gaze raking Bryony's pale, beautiful face. "Tell me he's lying."

The eyes she lifted to him were full of pain and longing. Hayden felt a cold ball of fear settle in his stomach. "He..." She swallowed hard. "If I don't go with him, he'll take Madeline away from me."

Hayden filled his lungs, then expelled all the air in one, sharp word.
"Why?"

She pushed a stray lock of hair out of her face with a shaky hand. "Uncle Edward is dead. He left all of his money to Madeline."

Hayden speared Wentworth with a contemptuous stare. "You would take a child away from her mother for
money!"

Wentworth's hands stopped their repetitive journey up and down his cane. "Madeline is my daughter, too. Remember?"

Hayden had to tighten his own hands into fists to keep from wrapping them around the bastard's neck. "All right, what's your price?"

Wentworth raised his eyebrows as if insulted. "I beg your pardon?"

"You know what I mean. I'll buy you off. How much will it take?"

A mocking smile curved the other man's lips. "More than you have."

The two men's gazes caught, and held.

Hayden glanced at Bryony. "Take Madeline and wait for me inside the hotel. I won't—" He saw Bryony's eyes widen, her lips part in alarm, and whirled around just in time to see Wentworth, his fist gripping the handle of a long, deadly dagger Hayden realized must have been concealed in the shaft of the cane, lunge at him.

Hayden fell back, grabbing Wentworth's coat and letting the momentum of the other man's own attack carry him up and over in a throw that sent him somersaulting down the embankment, toward the river.

Tearing off his coat and tossing it to one side, Hayden plunged down the steep hill after him. Wentworth must have lost his knife somewhere in the long grass of the riverbank. He came up from a crouch to smash his fist into Hayden's face.

Hayden's head snapped back. He staggered, then bent forward and plowed into Wentworth's stomach, carrying him backward and down into the river. The two men rolled together, over and over, through the shallow water.

A rumble, oddly reminiscent of a mighty drumroll, vibrated the air and shook the earth beneath them. Hayden saw Wentworth's head jerk around to stare up the valley, but it was still a moment or two before Hayden realized what the sound was.

The floodwaters crashed down the valley, thick with silt, choked with debris. Giant, uprooted trees, piles of branches and trash, dead cattle and sheep were caught up in a raging mass that surged down the river, obliterating everything in its path.

Standing on the veranda, Bryony watched, horror-stricken, as the foam-flecked brown hand of death swooped down on the two men, now locked together and
rolling over and over in the shallows of the river beside the jetty.

"Hayden!"

She ran to the edge of the steep embankment, then stopped, helpless, the cold air sawing in and out of her lungs, her hands cupping her unborn child.

Both men seemed to become aware of the danger at the same time. Breaking apart, they scrambled up the steep, grassy slopes of the bank. Hayden had almost reached the top when Oliver's feet shot out from under him. He went down hard, sliding on his stomach back toward the water as he desperately clutched at clumps of weeds and brush, trying to stop himself.

She saw Hayden hesitate, then turn back. "Here, take my hand," he called, his arm outstretched as he slipped back down toward the fallen man.

"Go to hell," Oliver spat. Ignoring Hayden's hand, he staggered up onto his feet, only to go down again.

"Don't be a fool," said Hayden, glancing up river. "There is no time. Take my hand."

The river bore down on them with ferocious speed. Bryony's mouth opened in a wail of terror and despair as the rushing water slammed into the gray, worn planks of the jetty, then crashed over it, obliterating it. With a fearsome, tearing crack, the entire structure exploded as if it had been struck by an artillery shell. Broken timbers rained down from the sky, to be swept up and carried along with the raging torrent.

Where the two men had been there was now only boiling brown water.

"Hayden."
Bryony's scream echoed back at her from across the raging brown river. Her legs buckled beneath her, and she sank to her knees in the grass. She felt the warmth of the sun shining down on her bowed shoulders, heard the clear, sweet song of some bird, calling in the distance.

She was only vaguely aware of Quincy beside her,

Madeline clutching at his neck. Suddenly Quincy flung out an arm and shouted, "There he is!"

Hope seized Bryony, squeezed her chest, stopping her breath. Several of the pilings from the jetty and the steps still stood, thrusting up like monoliths from out of the swirling water. And clinging to one of them, his dark hair plastered against his head, was Hayden.

She realized there were other people milling about. There were shouts of "Get a rope!" and "Here, tie that end to the post." A loop went sailing through the air. She saw Hayden's hand snake out, catch it. But the water was still rising fast, the current swift and deadly.

She saw him let go of the piling, and held her breath as the rope stretched taut. The water caught at him, tried to tear him away. He slipped and slid, working his way up the steep, submerged bank, only to lose his footing completely and crash back into the water. The swirling cauldron closed over his head, and Bryony screamed.

"No!"
She lunged forward, but Quincy snagged her arm, holding her fast. She saw Hayden stagger up onto his feet again, saw that he had somehow managed to tie the rope around his waist. She felt a great ache in her chest and realized she'd forgotten to breathe. She sucked in a deep draft of air, unable to hope, unable not to hope...