Forever in My Heart Page 14

  Mary Francis continued to stare at him, her eyes narrowed and thoughtful. "She could hurt Maggie."

  "I won't let her."

  Maggie joined them then. Her glance darted between her husband and her sister as she tried to divine the nature of the conversation she had interrupted. She asked Connor, "Has Mary Francis threatened to break your kneecaps?"

  Connor's brows rose slightly and his glance at Mary conferred greater respect.

  "We were just coming to that," Mary Francis admitted shamelessly.

  Maggie's nod was wise. "I thought that might be what was going on." She looked at Connor. "I suppose it's because she's the oldest that she's taken on the role as everyone's protector, but she takes it very seriously."

  "I'm beginning to understand that," Connor said. He was careful not to smile. Not only would it have been condescending, but he believed he risked the chance of never walking again.

  "Mary Michael and Ethan were married in this very room and she threatened his kneecaps."

  "So it's something of a tradition," Connor said. "Then I do feel welcomed."

  Mary Francis couldn't help smiling. "As long as you don't hurt my sister you have nothing to fear." She paused a beat. "Otherwise..." On that note she walked away.

  Maggie turned so that her back was to her family. Her face, which had been animated moments earlier, was drained of color. She couldn't appreciate the irony that it was only with Connor that she could be herself. "Please," she said quietly, "can we leave soon? I can't bear much more of this."

  "We'll leave now," he said. He took her hand in his and tucked it against his side. Her fingers were cold, her skin like ice. He wondered that she wasn't shaking. "I reserved a suite for us at the St. Mark."

  Panic paralyzed her for a moment. "But you said—"

  "My father's idea," he told her. "A gift to us, actually."

  It was not so much Connor's words that calmed her, but the way he said them. He managed to communicate that he was no more pleased about the arrangement than she was. That made her feel better. She thought she might be able to go on a little longer. "We're expected to join everyone for a wedding dinner at my parents' home," she said. "The judge is going to join us."

  He sensed the change in her, the way she had tapped into some reserve of strength she hadn't been able to find moments earlier. "Are you certain?" he asked. "I can make our excuses."

  "I'll be all right," she said. "That is, if you don't mind."

  A decade ago, as a young man, Connor had had to choose between a ravenous wolf pack and a forty-foot drop down the sheer face of a cliff. He knew precisely why he was remembering that incident now. His choices seemed equally unpleasant, though perhaps not as potentially fatal. His glance wandered to Mary Francis in deep conversation with his father and he reconsidered his last thought.

  "I'll do whatever you want," he said, then added significantly, "but not always. This time I don't mind."

  The wedding dinner was not the painfully stressful event Maggie had feared. The tension that always seemed to exist between Rushton and Connor had eased to a tolerable level and Beryl was properly attentive to her husband. Mary Francis and the judge were responsible for the liveliest conversation and Skye for the ribald humor. Moira made certain no one's plate was ever quite empty while Jay Mac filled their glasses with samplings of the best wines from his cellars.

  Maggie and Connor extricated themselves from the gathering after only two hours, their parting made easy since the real farewells would happen at the train station in the morning. A light rain had started and pattered gently against the carriage roof. By the time they reached the St. Mark Hotel it was a downpour.

  "Do you want to make a run for it?" Connor asked. "Or wait it out? It doesn't look as if the doorman intends to come out with an umbrella."

  "I don't think an umbrella would help much," she said doubtfully. "Let's run for it."

  Connor shook his head. "I wasn't thinking. You'll ruin your gown."

  Maggie looked down at herself. The bodice of her gown was embroidered with beads the color of sapphires. Everywhere else, including the square train that swept the floor around her when she stood, was pale blue satin. Even her delicate shoes had been specially dyed to match the gown. She sighed. "You don't mind waiting? I rather liked this gown."

  Connor was thinking that he rather liked it himself. Or at least he liked the way Maggie looked in it. He knew she didn't suspect that he felt that way. He had been successful hiding his appreciation behind his remote gaze, but it had been as much a strain as any other part of the day's charade. "We'll wait." He craned his neck so he could get a better view of the sky. It was unrelentingly gray and night was closing in early. "It's got to let up sometime."

  Maggie rearranged her train and settled back. The combs that kept her carefully coifed hair in place were uncomfortable when pressed tightly to her head. She removed them and combed out her hair with her fingers. "That's better." She leaned back against the leather cushions again and closed her eyes.

  Connor's eyes fell on the vulnerable line of her white throat and his fingers itched to close around it. He thrust his hands into the pockets of his jacket and tried to think of something besides the uncomfortable swelling in his groin. Nothing occurred to him. In his mind's eye he could only see the repetitive sultry motion of Maggie's fingers threading through her hair.

  He took off his jacket. "Here," he said roughly, pushing it in her direction. "Put this on."

  The sound of Connor's insistent voice jerked Maggie out of her peaceful musings. She frowned, her head tilting to one side. "But—"

  "I've changed my mind," he said. "I told you we wouldn't always do things your way." Maggie fumbled with the combs, trying to jab them back into her hair. He took them from her nerveless fingers and made her take his jacket. As soon as she had it on, he jumped out of the carriage, and then turned to lift her out.

  Maggie expected to be put on her feet again and prepared for the rain to seep into her shoes and stockings. It never happened. Connor Holiday swept her and her train in his arms and carried her straight into the St. Mark. He was the one who had done the work but somehow she was the one who was breathless.

  Once inside he set her down. Maggie was aware of guests in the lobby watching them, smiling knowingly, nudging one another. She supposed the spectacle had looked romantic after a fashion but the reality felt nothing like it. She removed Connor's jacket carefully and handed it to him. Her reflection in the full-length mirrors that graced the St. Mark's entrance bore out the fact that she had been protected from the deluge while Connor had borne the brunt of it.

  Curling ends of his dark hair dripped water onto his collar and his white shirt clung wetly to his shoulders. Even his lashes were spiky. He shrugged into his damp jacket.

  "Wait," she said when he started to go toward the registration desk. She stood on tiptoe and brushed away a droplet of water from his cheek with her index finger. "There. That's better."

  It wasn't, but he didn't tell her that. He took her wrist in his hand. He saw by the look on her face that the pressure of his fingers was more than he had intended. He eased his hold slightly, forced a smile, and for the benefit of their onlookers, kissed the back of her hand.

  Maggie had no choice but to go where he led, though she didn't feel as much escorted as she did dragged along. She removed herself from his hold while he confirmed their arrangements with the hotel manager and looked around the lobby.

  The St. Mark had a certain grandeur that made one feel awed and comfortable at the same time. The intricately plastered ceilings drew the eye upward while the muted reflections in the polished woodwork kept one grounded. Maggie had been in the hotel many times, especially when her sister Michael had made her home there. The St. Mark catered to families and long-term boarders with its open and inviting dining and sitting rooms.

  Maggie turned back to the manager who was assuring Connor that everything would be to his liking. She only listened with half an ear. Her
attention fell on the open registration book in front of her.

  Mr. and Mrs. Connor Holiday.

  It was as though she had ceased to exist.

  * * *

  Caught in his own dark thoughts, Connor didn't notice Maggie's pensive, withdrawn mood as they rode the steam lift to the fifth floor. He ushered her inside the suite and they were followed in short order by the bellboy carrying their bags.

  The spacious suite was appointed tastefully with dark walnut furniture. The sitting area had two wing chairs and a long, stiffly stuffed sofa. The area rug carried out the room's color theme of cream, maroon, and hunter green. The dining space was marked by a small walnut table and two side chairs, all of them polished so they reflected the occupants of the room. An enormous cut glass vase had been set in the middle of the table, and the sweet fragrance of a dozen long stemmed red roses lay heavily in the air. Above the mantelpiece was an elaborate gilt-framed mirror that magnified the gas jet lighting in the room.

  The bellboy placed their bags in the bedroom, which was to the left of the dining area. He showed them the armoire, the dressing and bathing rooms, and the balcony that overlooked Broadway when one opened the French doors.

  As she stood on the threshold of the bedroom, Maggie took note of these things with only one small part of her mind. Her attention was riveted on the bed, and when the bellboy left and she was alone with Connor again, she said the first thing that came to her, the only thing she'd been thinking about for ten minutes.

  "There's only one."

  Connor paused in removing his jacket. He looked at her oddly. "What?"

  "There's only one," she repeated.

  He finished slipping out of the jacket and hung it on the brass coat rack just inside the door. "I understood that part," he said, running one hand through his dark hair. He plucked at his damp shirt. "I don't understand what it means."

  "One bed," she said. "One bedroom! There should be two. My sister had a suite here. She had two bedrooms."

  "I'm sure she did," Connor said evenly. "But she lived here, didn't she? She wasn't married then."

  Maggie found his calm infuriating. "So? What has that to do with anything? The St. Mark has suites with two bedrooms and I want one." Even to her own ears she sounded like a spoiled child on the verge of a temper tantrum.

  Connor was thoughtful for a moment, watching her, then he shrugged. "Fine," he said. "But you'll have to arrange it."

  In spite of his indifferent tone, Maggie sensed he was challenging her. "Fine," she said. "I will." She smoothed her hair in the mirror above the fireplace, and when she was satisfied with the hasty repairs to her appearance, she turned to go. Connor was standing in front of the door, blocking her way.

  "You know they realize we were just married," he said pleasantly.

  Maggie would have realized it if she'd thought of it. "So?" she asked carelessly, pretending it didn't matter.

  Connor stepped aside to let her pass. "If you're not embarrassed to request a second bedroom on your wedding night, then I'm not going to stop you."

  Determined to brazen it out, she said, "It's the lesser of two evils, isn't it?"

  He opened the door for her. "Be my guest. I look forward to hearing your explanation."

  She sniffed haughtily and swept past him, gracing him with a sour glance when he chuckled under his breath. Maggie took the lift, but she asked the operator to let her out on the second floor. She stepped off confidently, pretending she had a direction in mind. When she heard the gate close behind her and the lift move upward again, she stopped and leaned against the wall in the dimly lighted hallway.

  What was she going to tell them at the front desk? Bridal nerves? The groom was a wife beater? One of them was ill? The marriage was a farce? They were only comfortable sharing a bed in brothels?

  Maggie's laughter was a trifle hysterical. Down the hall a door opened and a man stepped out. She ducked her head, covered her mouth with her hand, and pretended to cough. She began walking, her head bent, and felt the stranger's inquisitive eyes on her. Maggie went to the end of the hallway and opened the door to the stairwell. Once she was safely away from curious glances she paused on the steps, leaning lightly against the iron rail banister. She looked down. There were twenty-four steps circling down to the first floor. She remembered the smiling hotel manager, the good wishes of the desk clerk and porter. Mr. and Mrs. Connor Holiday. Maggie looked up. Three flights of stairs loomed above her. Seventy-two steps.

  Well, she thought, if she walked slowly she might just have her story in place by the time she reached the top.

  * * *

  Connor wasn't in the sitting room when she returned. She dreaded walking into the bedroom, afraid to find him there in some state of undress. Calling herself all manner of fool and a coward, Maggie went into the bedroom. He wasn't there. She said his name, quietly at first, then more loudly. He didn't answer. She peeked in the dressing room and knocked on the bathing room door. There was no response.

  Had he gone looking for her when she took so long? Maggie frowned, wondering how that might complicate the story she had planned. She lighted the bedside lamps and turned off the gas jets. Sitting on the edge of the large four-poster, Maggie removed her shoes and carefully rolled off her stockings. She opened her valise and found it empty. The armoire was filled with her clothes—and his. It made her stomach flutter oddly to see his shirts on a peg beside her chemises, her stockings beside his socks. Her colorful hair ribbons shared space with his black bow ties. His vest nudged her corset.

  Maggie pulled out her nightshift and laid it at the foot of the bed. This morning her mother and sister had helped her with her gown. Now Maggie struggled with the tiny row of buttons at the back.

  Watching Maggie from the balcony, Connor felt like a beggar urchin with his nose pressed to the bakery window. Only his wife wasn't a hot cross bun and it wasn't his mouth that was watering. The cool night air wasn't as effective as a cold shower on his aching groin, but then Connor wasn't willing to turn his back on Maggie in favor of the view of Broadway. He sat tensely on the edge of the stone balustrade, his arms crossed in front of him. His usually remote gaze had taken a sleepy, heavy-lidded turn as his eyes wandered over Maggie.

  She was twisting and turning, trying to get at the buttons at the back of her gown. Still, there was something inherently graceful in her movements. She had managed to free one shoulder and the bare curve of her skin caught the lamplight. Muted shades of orange defined her collarbone. The combs that had held her hair back were dislodged by her struggles. She tossed them aside and plaited her hair quickly so a single thick coil of copper fell down her back. For a moment she looked too young to be the wife of any man.

  Then she slipped out of the beaded blue gown.

  The cambric chemise molded her figure. It was a plain garment with no flounces to emphasize the curve of her breasts or hips. She pulled at a ribbon and the garment fell silkily past her arms, her waist, her thighs, and circled her bare feet. She stepped out of it.

  Connor shifted his weight on the stone railing as Maggie reached behind her to tug at the laces of her corset. The movement thrust her breasts forward. He watched her sigh as the corset fell away. She reached under her camisole and rubbed her flesh with the flat of her palms. Connor wondered why she bothered with the contraption when it served no purpose except to make her uncomfortable. He could nearly span her waist with his hands. The corset merely kept him from feeling the softness of her the way he wanted to. Then again, perhaps that's why she wore it.

  Connor stood up and pushed away from the railing as Maggie touched the hem of her camisole and began to lift it upward over her midriff. He tapped lightly on a pane of glass in the French doors. He saw her freeze.

  Like a doe sensing danger, Maggie became still and alert. The sound was not repeated but it didn't matter to her. She knew she had heard it and she knew where it had come from.

  Maggie raised her head slowly, her fingers dropping away from her cami
sole at the same time. It modestly fell over her bare skin but it hardly mattered. She felt naked and exposed. She saw his shadowy outline on the balcony, the dark profile that was still dangerous and threatening despite the fact that she knew his identity. She didn't have to see his eyes to know their cold, fathomless depths, or see his face to be aware of his mocking half-smile.

  Maggie was pleased with her composure, pleased that she didn't scream as instinct prompted her to. Turning her back on him, she picked up her nightdress and slipped it over her head.

  Connor tapped again. He jiggled the door handle for good measure.

  When she turned back around she was smiling. He was locked out. It was a delicious irony and made her feel infinitely more in control. She took her time getting to the door and grinned cheekily at him.

  "There won't always be a door between us," he reminded her. He knew she wouldn't have given him such a smug look if she weren't feeling safe and superior.

  "You're right," she said. "If you take the street exit I'll be a widow and rid of you permanently."

  "Don't count on it."

  Even through the distortion of the glass his voice maintained its peculiar menacing quality. He'd probably take the leap and live just to spite her, or worse, die and haunt her. Maggie turned the jammed lock and opened the door.

  "Thank you," he said coldly, stepping inside.

  Maggie ignored him. She went to the armoire, removed her dressing gown, and disappeared into the bathing room.

  Connor's eyes narrowed at the militant set of her shoulders. His fingers curled into a tight fist, enabling him to keep from grabbing her swinging braid and yanking her solidly against him. He didn't know what he would have done with her then. He wanted to believe he would have shaken her, but he suspected he might have been persuaded, with no provocation on her part, to kiss her.

  Cursing softly, Connor went to the armoire and removed his own nightshirt and dressing gown. It seemed likely that Maggie was going to spend the better part of the evening in the bathing room.