Dragonslayer Page 8

  Now Thomas’s footsteps grew louder, and she knew that this time he had paced his way to the doorway.

  “Go ahead and say it,” she said.

  “What am I supposed to say?”

  “We made a mistake. This was a terrible idea. Maybe being married is just for show, but I’m going to make you so miserable you’ll end up begging the Knights to come in and finish what they started.”

  A deep, rich chuckle came from the doorway.

  Slowly, with grave reservations, she sat up again. “Tell me you weren’t thinking exactly that.”

  “I was thinking that your stuff will never fit in here.”

  “You’d be surprised. Besides, half of what I owned is in the garbage now.”

  His smile disappeared. “I wish I could have spared you the sight of your apartment.”

  “I’m just glad the clinic didn’t burn, too.”

  “There is still a fair amount of water damage.”

  “Nothing we can’t fix.”

  “You aren’t going to fix anything for a while. You heard the doctor.”

  “I’m a nurse. I say I’m cured.”

  “You don’t look cured. You look pale. Your eyes look tired.”

  She had seen herself in the mirror over his dresser. She looked worse than pale and tired. The bruise on one side of her face had turned a sickly gold. The other side of her face was still a little swollen. No telling what color it would turn before it healed. There was a bandage on her forehead. The cut it covered had taken three stitches to close. Luckily for her vanity, the scar would blend into her hairline.

  “Well, at least I can see why you don’t want to sleep with me,” she said. She watched his face. Nothing changed. He was really very good at this.

  “Did I ever say I didn’t want to sleep with you?” he asked.

  “You’ve made it clear.”

  “I said I wasn’t going to sleep with you. Can you hear the difference?”

  “Well, it seems like you should get some compensation for being my bodyguard.”

  “Your wit will be compensation enough.”

  She smiled enticingly but not so enticingly that he might take her seriously. “You don’t know what you’re missing.”

  “I have a pretty good idea.”

  She heard something behind his words. Nostalgia for the delights of sharing a marriage bed? No, she didn’t think that was it. Nostalgia was much too tame a word. What she had heard was raw and unrefined. Her smile died. She had the sudden realization that she was playing with fire here. If she really offered herself to this man and he accepted, she didn’t know what would be left of either of them.

  She changed the subject. “Is that your wife’s picture in the living room?”

  He stared his ice-blue stare for a moment; then he shook his head. “I can’t believe I didn’t put it away.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m not offended. Just curious.”

  “Her name was Patricia.”

  “She was lovely.” Garnet had only sneaked one glance at the photograph, but she had seen the kind of pleasant, blond good looks that had enraptured the teachers in the private academy where she had spent her adolescence. The woman in the photograph wore an expensive white wedding gown with the requisite pounds of seed pearls and acres of lace. Her expression indicated that her thoughts were on the man she loved.

  Man she had loved.

  “When did she die?” Garnet asked.

  “Almost three years ago.”

  “Illness? Accident?”

  “She died in a struggle for her purse.”

  Garnet’s gaze didn’t falter. Thomas had barely managed to choke out the words. She knew so little about him, but now she knew that he hadn’t yet accepted Patricia’s death.

  And she knew a little more. “A very senseless way to die,” she said softly. “Almost as senseless as gang violence, right, Thomas?”

  “What?”

  “Did you marry me because of what happened to your wife?”

  “You know why I married you.”

  “And I understand it a little better, I think.”

  He left the room. She watched him go and knew that she had scored a hit. But she didn’t know how deep. Had he married her because he knew how easily she could end up like Patricia, and he wanted to help? Or had he married her because he felt an overwhelming responsibility for his wife’s death, a responsibility that would not go away unless he saved someone else?

  The two motives might look similar on the outside, but in her mind they were a million miles apart. One suggested a desire to stand beside her because his goals and hers were the same. The other suggested a desire to somehow atone for his sins.

  What were his sins, and what was behind his offer to help her? She lay back and stared at the ceiling again. Patricia’s image danced in her mind. She wished she could question the pleasant-looking young woman about Thomas’s motives. But the only way to do that was a quick trip to heaven.

  And Thomas himself was standing in the way of that.

  Garnet’s fragrance, a provocative, subtle scent, clung to everything she owned. And her possessions were so obviously hers that they might as well have been emblazoned with her name.

  Thomas stood in the living room and surveyed the wreckage of what had once been a neutral, tranquil space. Now it was covered with Garnet’s things, and Garnet was asleep in his... her bed.

  So much of what she owned had been destroyed, but she had shrugged off most of the loss. As he had before, he sensed that she did not let herself become easily attached. She behaved as if she expected to have things taken from her. She had said as much the evening of her attack.

  I’m staying in the Corners, she’d said. I know I’ll die there. I’ve always known.

  And she meant it. He supposed that her belief that she would die violently, and that her death would come sooner than later, affected her attitude about everything.

  Yet she wrung life from every second with a zest he couldn’t deny. Her possessions testified to that. There were no neutral colors here. Primary colors leaped at him from every surface. Colors and textures and scents so exotic he was transported to another continent where marketplaces filled the streets and the simplest food tasted of a thousand spices.

  Out of nowhere anger filled him that someone who lived life so fully, who dared the devil and spent her time performing small miracles, had been threatened by death. Garnet Anthony.. .no, Garnet Stonehill was a woman of great audacity and cynicism. She was often sure she was right about things of which she knew nothing at all. She challenged everything, accepted almost nothing and had no regard for traditions or piety.

  But she caught each second and drained it dry. She sucked up whatever beauty came her way and flaunted it for everyone else to enjoy.

  And she cared. About everyone. About everything. More than she would ever admit. More than she would probably ever understand. She cared enough that she had entered into this sham of a marriage just so she could continue to stretch out her graceful, seductive arms to embrace a world that often didn’t seem to notice.

  Thomas walked to the window and peered into the bedroom. Evening had come, and still Garnet slept exactly where she had first stretched out. He knew she must be exhausted. She had insisted on being released from the hospital a day before the doctor had wanted to let her go. Then she had insisted that Thomas take her straight to her old apartment to see the damage and collect what she could.

  She had walked the rooms with the baby from the apartment next door on her hip. Her eyes had been dry. But he knew what a toll the experience had taken on her.

  She slept on. Her hair fanned out over the bedspread as if it had sought its own soft comfort. His heart clenched at the sight of the bruises, but bruises would heal. Her face was interesting in repose. There was a sharpness missing from it as she slept; she looked more vulnerable, more childlike. The unusual combination of features that was so striking when she was awake seemed merely beautiful now. He supposed
it was the mobility of her expression, the smoking green of her eyes, that set her apart from other beautiful women he had known.

  He wanted to touch her hair.

  He didn’t know where the thought had come from, or what had propelled him across the room to stand by her bedside. He watched his own hand reach out and stop just short of the tangled strands. She was too far away. He was too far away. A million desolate miles.

  As he watched, the small room was lit with the warm glow of green fire. She stared at him.

  “Come to claim your conjugal rights?”

  He wanted to throttle her. He wanted to embrace her. He slipped his hands in his pockets. “I’ve come to wake you up for dinner. You’re probably starved.”

  She sat up warily. He didn’t know what she was afraid of, but he stepped back a little to give her all the room she needed. “Darn. Just food. No sex.”

  “I haven’t made anything yet. I don’t even know what you like to eat.”

  “I like to eat everything. You said dinner?”

  “It’s seven o’clock. At night.”

  “What have you got?”

  “Frozen dinners. You can have your pick.”

  “Over my dead body. What else do you have?” She worked on a smile as he frowned at her. It came surprisingly easily. “Thomas, don’t you cook?”

  He didn’t. Cooking took time from more important things. He shook his head.

  Her smile widened. “Well, I do. You’re a lucky guy. I’ll run down to the store.”

  “No, you won’t.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Am I in prison?”

  “Only if you think of it that way.”

  “I can’t go to the store by myself?”

  “You can do anything you want. You know that. But so can I.”

  “In other words, I’ve got a constant companion?”

  “Either that or we can tie a target around your neck.”

  She pouted. “I don’t like being caged.”

  “I’m sure you don’t.”

  “You must have something we can eat.”

  “Let’s go see.” He watched her stand. She stretched like a cat, as naturally, as sinuously before she dropped her arms and winced. Her kelly green sweater tightened across her breasts. His mouth went dry.

  He followed her to the tiny kitchen, around boxes spilling over with clothing and toiletries, books and DVDs. Her stereo had been ruined, but the CDs that had been inside the cabinet looked as if they had escaped harm. They had salvaged some furniture, too, a carved bedside table from India, a cupboard painted with designs—now blistered—that reminded him of Australian aboriginal art.

  “Tomorrow I’ll find places for everything,” she said. “Unless you want me to find somewhere to store it.”

  “You live here now. The place is yours, too.”

  “Do you care what I do with it?”

  He shrugged. “Just be sure there’s room for the kids to gather here on Sunday morning.”

  Her response was barely audible. “When I’m done with the place, they’ll be happier to gather here.”

  In the kitchen she took stock of what she had to work with. Thomas stood to one side and watched her. He wondered if he should leave her alone or offer to help. He compromised and just stood silently, taking up more than his share of the space.

  “You’ve got hardly anything in here to cook with, Thomas. Didn’t your wife cook, either?”

  Patricia had cooked faithfully. Good, solid American cuisine with an emphasis on the food pyramid and parsley. He remembered that parsley had decorated every dinner she had served. Her father, the bishop, had teased her once by bringing her half a dozen pots of parsley to set on her windowsill. She had taken the joke in quiet good stride, and the pots had flourished.

  “I gave most of our things away after she died,” he said.

  Garnet looked up. There was a lock of black hair falling across his forehead. He was the picture of a strong man who refused to admit his vulnerabilities. “That bad, huh?”

  “I didn’t need them.”

  “Well, at least you kept a bowl. And a spoon. And one pot. One pot, Thomas? Do you mix everything together? Never mind, I know you said you don’t cook. I’m just having trouble understanding how that’s possible.”

  She bent and continued her inventory. Finally she stood. “Well, at least we won’t have a problem finding room for my kitchen things.”

  “We could go out for dinner.”

  “Know a place that doesn’t have a plate glass window? My ducking reflexes are a little slow.”

  “Carryout?”

  “I’ll manage.” She opened the refrigerator. “Let’s see. Eggs, milk, cheese, bread. Mustard...” She poked her head in deeper. “A can of tuna? Didn’t your mother tell you that tuna goes in the cupboard?” She peeked around the door. “Did you have a mother?”

  “I still do.”

  “Me, too. Two sisters, too, but Ema probably told you that.”

  “The other one’s...” He tried to remember.

  “Smart. Jade hitchhiked to California when she was sixteen and never found her way back.”

  “You should have done the same thing.”

  “What? And miss the chance to be married to the mysterious Thomas Stonehill?” She took everything out of the refrigerator and set the pathetically small array on the counter.

  Thomas was right beside her. She was suddenly aware of his presence in more than a cursory way. He hovered over her, sharing her oxygen, sending the warmth of his body to heat the air around her.

  She looked up at him. He was watching her intently. Plankton under the microscope. “Does this seem as strange to you as it does to me?” she asked.

  “Everything about it’s strange.”

  “Was this a terrible mistake?”

  “Not if I get a good meal out of it.”

  She smiled. A smile seemed surprisingly intimate in the small space. “I can surely give you that.”

  He knew he should move away. The air seemed heavy with something he didn’t want to identify. The fragrance he had noted earlier seemed to hang between them. Her hair crackled around her shoulders, and he could almost feel the electricity sting his skin.

  He wondered what else she could give him. He had married her expecting nothing. And now, in this instant, he knew he had underestimated her.

  Some long-denied part of him responded. She was woman. Every bit a woman. And he was nothing more than a man. Sensation crept along his nerve endings. Hormones charged through his system. Life stirred inside... and out.

  “Do you want to help?” she asked. “If not, don’t stand there taking up all the space.”

  “I’ll set the table.” He turned to leave, and the spell, the bewitching, pagan spell, of Garnet Anthony Stonehill was broken.

  He made up the sofa bed at about ten o’clock. Garnet had been in the bedroom with the door shut for twenty minutes. He assumed she had already gone to sleep.

  The bed looked less than inviting when he had finished. By rights he should have been tired after lifting and hauling boxes all day. And Garnet’s tuna and cheese strata was still melting deliciously into every internal crevice of his body. Well fed and exercised, he should fall asleep with no difficulty.

  He wouldn’t sleep until the early hours, if he slept at all.

  He was a married man. Automatically his eyes sought Patricia’s wedding photograph, but he had shoved it in a drawer the first time Garnet’s back was turned. His relationship with Garnet might be nothing more than that of church-sanctioned roommate, but it had still been inconsiderate to expose her to Patricia’s photo. Her wedding photo.

  His first wedding night had been nothing like this one. Patricia had been too shy to relax easily. It had taken too much of the evening to convince her to undress, and much more to convince her that wedding nights could be fun.

  But theirs hadn’t been. She had relaxed later on their honeymoon, possibly even into a certain degree of enjoyment. As the year
s had gone by she had relaxed still more, until by the last year of their marriage, she had come to him to initiate lovemaking.

  Except that by then, he had been too tired or too busy much of the time to accommodate her.

  Thomas slipped into bed. He was wearing new pajamas. He had never slept in pajamas, not even on his first wedding night. But he wasn’t going to parade naked around this apartment with Garnet in the next room. That was an invitation he couldn’t afford to issue.

  He read the same four paragraphs of an article in Christian Century three times before he realized that reading was hopeless. His mind was on the woman in the next room. He told himself that having Garnet so close was a unique experience and one he would quickly grow accustomed to, but he wondered who he was trying to kid. She would not fade into the background of his life as Patricia quickly had. Garnet was not going to be his wife in any meaningful way, but before she left she would leave her mark on him and on everything she touched.

  “Good. You’re still up. I found something for us in one of my boxes.”

  He looked up to see the woman in question standing in the bedroom with a bottle in her hand. “It’s not alcoholic, I don’t drink. But it’s my favorite fizzy stuff.”

  She was wearing a satin nightshirt that skimmed her legs at midthigh. It was royal purple, loose and comfortable and surely no shorter than the skirts she wore. But judging by the reaction deep in his gut, it might as well have been a transparent negligee.

  “I don’t usually drink,” he said. “But not because it’s against my religion.”

  “Jesus drank wine, didn’t he? I'm betting you’re no better than he was.” She padded barefoot into the kitchen and came back with two juice glasses. “I’m glad you’re not too stuffy, Thomas. Or living with me would give you palpitations.”

  His heart rate bordered on palpitations already. He was seeing nothing more of her body than he had seen already—except, possibly, for the swaying of her unrestrained breasts—but his body was reacting as if everything was new. He moved over as she approached the sofa bed so that she could sit on the end. She did, campfire style.