Katherine O’Neal (13 page)

She wanted Mace Blackwood more than life
itself.

But how could she have him? Aside from the
fact that she was marrying another man, there were other, more
pressing, considerations. Every time she looked at him, she’d
wonder if it was
she
he wanted, or the winning of the game.
She’d never be able to trust him. Never touch him without recalling
what his brother, Lance, had done. How it had ruined her life. How
she still carried scars from that night that refused to heal.

The fact that she wanted him was a betrayal
of all she’d held dear. Of the one goal that had helped her survive
that awful time in London after her parents’ death. To the one
thought that had kept her alive.

Revenge against the Blackwoods.

It was within her grasp, if only she had the
courage to go through with it. Personal feelings must be set aside.
It helped harden her to realize she was experiencing what he’d
wanted her to feel. Having devastated her with his lovemaking, he’d
anticipated the confusion that would mar this day of triumph.
But how had he known?
She’d never been moved by any other
man.

He’d known, of course, because he was a
chameleon, just as she was. He became, for each person, what was
wanted of him. It was simply a role. He was not to be trusted,
never to be believed. So what if he’d seemed as moved—as
surprised—as she by what had transpired the night before?
He
wanted her to believe it
. He wanted her to believe that no
woman on earth had ever brought to the surface such punishing
emotions. That no romp in bed had ever made him feel as alive, as
potent, as serene within himself, as this fusing of bodies—
of
minds, of souls
—had been with her.

He wanted her to believe it because it would
give him the edge. And when she least expected it, he’d yank the
rug from under her and leave her with nothing.

The worst of it was, some small part of her
did
believe. Believed that in the aftermath of passion—
of
love
—such as she’d never dreamed existed, he was as stunned and
newly awakened as she. Believed that, knowing what they’d shared,
he couldn’t let her go. That, impossible and daring as it might be
to confess it, having each other was worth the risk.

Believed that he’d show up at the church,
break up the proceedings, sweep her into his arms, and boldly carry
her away.

That he’d rescue her from her own madness in
marrying a man she didn’t love, now that she knew—wretchedly—that
she
could
love.

It meant the end of her father’s dream. But
in the throes of newfound love, she didn’t care. As Winston’s wife,
she’d be respectable. But her instincts told her that with Mace
Blackwood, she could be that most precious of all things:
herself
.

The knowledge that he could have deceived her
the night before—that his seeming wonder at their union could have
been a facade—made him, perversely, all the more appealing. Mace
was so much like her father that being with him was like returning
to a long-lost home. No one but her father had been able to outwit
her. No one had ever been that good. If she’d been conned,
Blackwood was an even greater artist than her father. It was more
intriguing than maddening.

Because the truth was, she wasn’t a society
matron. At heart, she loved the bluff. That Blackwood excelled at
it, that he relished it as much as she, made her love him all the
more. He was the embodiment of all she’d been forbidden, the very
essence of her true self. Even if he was a Blackwood.

Her father might understand. But he wouldn’t
like it one bloody bit.

* * *

The wedding of the year was a dazzling
affair, resplendent with the grandeur expected of society nuptials.
Saranda played fairy princess to a crowd who wanted to believe it
was true. The beautiful, enchanting Sarah Voors, who’d appeared
from nowhere to capture the heart of one of society’s most elusive
bachelors, heir apparent to the city’s most powerful and sought
after newspaper, the
Globe-Journal
. She knew her role. She
wasn’t marrying a man so much as she was marrying into an empire
whose influence could be felt around the world. She conducted
herself with the requisite dignity and grace. All the while praying
desperately,
Come to me, Blackwood. Steal me away.

The fervency of her emotions was reflected in
her face. Everyone commented on it, the whispers sweeping the room
as she made her appearance. In Winston’s mother’s iridescent
satin-and-pearl gown, she was a vision. Her silver hair framed her
face in soft curls, intertwined with diamonds and pearls. They
shimmered as she glided down the aisle amid hundreds of white
candles and pale rose petals that led a softly illuminated, headily
scented path to the altar. Her face, a shattered canvas that
morning, radiated a lustrous sheen of freshly blooming hope that
was the envy of every marriageable young lady, and made every man
there want to protect her from harm.

And all the while she was wondering: Where
was Blackwood? Would he come for her? Could he possibly, after all
that had happened, let her go through with this?

His words haunted her with every step she
took.
Once you’re Winston’s wife, I won't come near you
.
Each step brought her closer to a fate she’d wanted, even
manipulated and fought for, but that she knew now she could never
endure.

But she hadn’t been born a chameleon for
nothing. With her unique talent, she appeared different to each and
every guest. They saw, as she made that slow walk down the aisle,
what they wanted to see. She was the picture of the blushing bride.
Yet her lips, sensually parted and glistening in the candlelight,
offered unconscious promises of delight that caused those same
protective gentlemen to squirm in their pews against the sudden
tightening of their trousers. Beneath the grace of her gown, her
body seemed ripe with possibilities. Her breasts, spilling out of
her satin bodice, managed, through her carriage, through the feline
undulations of her walk down the aisle, to convey, along with her
virginal aloofness, a hint of scandalous titillation. Combined with
the show of silky shoulders and bare, diamond-braceleted arms,
she’d created an image of expensive, highly prized, voluptuously
offered flesh. She was, without a doubt, the most exquisite, lushly
promising bride they’d ever seen. No man present could watch her
walk down that aisle without wondering what it would be like to
slip the gown from her sumptuous body and bury his face in the
softness of her breasts.

Every man, that is, except the one the show
was meant for. Mace Blackwood didn’t even bother to show up.

“I was so afraid you wouldn’t go through with
it,” Winston admitted. “After what Archer said, I could only guess
what you might do. I could forgive what happened, easily, but if
you left me—” He shrugged, as if incapable of finding the
words.

They were alone in Winston’s bedroom in the
Van Slyke mansion, a dark-paneled bedroom with a nautical theme.
The rug, the curtains, the covers on the bed, were a soft steel
blue. It was decorated with a Dutch flag, models of clippers, and
an old tintype of Lalita Van Slyke. The bed was a four-poster, each
of the posts carved to resemble figureheads on a ship. Wood was
piled neatly in the fireplace, waiting to be lighted. It had been
decided that they’d spend the night there before departing for
Niagara Falls in the morning.

“I shan’t leave you, Winston,” she vowed. Not
now. Not having realized an awful truth. That Blackwood had conned
her, after all. That he
hadn't
cared.

Winston smiled sheepishly. “I sort of like it
when you call me Winny.”

“Winny,” she repeated.

“And I guess I’ll have to call you Saranda
from now on. It might take some getting used to—”

“It might be easier if you just called me
Sarah. But I must warn you, Winny. I may speak in my real voice
with you and Jackson, but no one else. It may become a burden to
you, keeping such a secret the rest of our lives.”

“Burden,” he cried. “It’s the most exciting
thing that’s ever happened to me!”

He gazed at her earnestly, reverently, but
with a new light in his eyes. Having discovered his bride was an
adventuress, he didn’t know what to expect. The realization seemed
to heighten his awareness of her. While he’d never so much as
kissed her before today, he now looked as if he couldn’t wait to
get his hands on her. There was a curious glint in his eyes, as if
wondering what such a woman would be like in bed.

“I want to thank you, Winny, for being so
good to me. I want to—be a proper wife to you.”

“Sarah—
Saranda
—do you think—”

“What, Winny?”

“Well, I know you say you care about me. But
do you think, in time, you might learn to—love me?”

With an effort, she smiled at him. “I think a
woman would be balmy not to love you. And I promise you, I shall do
everything in my power to make you happy. Now run along and have a
drink with your father. Allow me some time to ready myself for
you.”

* * *

When he’d left, she walked over to the
mirror, set in a nautical chest of drawers. She studied her face
critically. The huge, dazed eyes, the high cheekbones that cast
angular shadows in the hollows of her cheeks. The pouty lips that
Winston would be kissing in just a matter of time. Unbidden,
memories of her night with Blackwood stirred like mist in her
mind.

His words came back to her as if he were
behind her, murmuring in her ear.
I know you're marrying
Winston... But something... keeps whispering that you belong to me.
That no man alive can understand you, accept you, the way I can.
That at Winston’s side, you’d be shackled to an impossible
existence. But in my arms, you’d be set free.

She couldn’t listen to these mad ravings.
Because he hadn’t meant a word he’d said. It had all been part of
his endless scheming. A merciless game in which besting her was the
objective. How could she have expected anything else? How could she
have been such a fool?

Yesterday she’d have consummated her marriage
to Winston without a thought. But that was before she’d known the
miracle of Blackwood’s lovemaking. Before he’d stolen a small part
of her that she’d given no one and taken it with him. Like a thief
in the night.

It was too late now for regrets. She’d made a
commitment to Winston, and she intended to honor it. She must give
him something in return for his kindness. She must make him believe
she wanted him every bit as much—

As she wanted Blackwood.

She was reaching up to remove the pearls from
her hair when she heard the shot. It was so unexpected, she held
her breath, waiting to be sure. It could have been something
crashing downstairs, she thought, trying to deny her suspicions.
But no—there it was again. Another gunshot, shattering the
stillness of the mansion.

Wrenching the door open, she ran down the
grand stairs. Halfway down, she caught sight of a figure running
out the front door. A tall, athletic man with curling black hair.
Something shriveled up and died inside her.

I tell you point-blank, if you think
you’ve won, you may be in for a surprise
.

Spurred to action, she flew down the stairs,
searching the rooms frantically, calling Winston’s name. In the
doorway of the study, she lurched to a stop as an acid taste rushed
to her throat.

They’d been drinking brandy. The glasses were
overturned on the floor, one of them broken, spilling the contents
on the Netherland rug. Winston and Jackson lay among the broken
glass and spilled liquor, both shot through the head.

With a strangled cry, she fell on Winston,
hoping desperately, against all reason, that he was still alive.
She lifted him in her arms. He was too heavy to hold up, and he
fell back to the floor at her feet. Dropping to her knees, she
fumbled for a pulse. There was none. Winston lay on his back with
blood seeping from his head, his spectacles askew, his aqua eyes
open, staring lifelessly at the ceiling. She began pounding at his
chest.

“Winny... no... oh, no...”

But she knew in her heart it was too
late.

“No... no...
no!
” The voice seemed to
come from a distant tunnel, sounding like the whimpering of a
wounded beast. She rocked beside him, wailing her denial of this
tragedy.

Distraught, she looked around. It was then
that she noticed the gun lying, as if discarded, on the far side of
Jackson’s body, on the way out of the study. She went to it, picked
it up, and stared at it. It was Jackson’s own.

Slowly, as if in a trance, she walked back to
Winston.
She’d
caused this. By playing God with this dear
man’s life, she’d brought about his death. She knelt beside him
once again and brushed his hair back from his face.

She was leaning over him when someone entered
the room. She looked up to see the massive bulk and red-fringed
whiskers of Sander McLeod. “I was in the washroom when I heard—” He
stopped short, horror registering on his face.

“Help me,” she pleaded.

“God in heaven. What have you done?”

She stood slowly on trembling legs. “Done? I
didn’t—”

“You’ve killed them!”

“No. You’re wrong.” She looked down at the
gun dangling from her hand. Her fingers convulsed open, and it
clattered to the floor. “
No!
”

McLeod, clutching his burgeoning girth, stuck
his head out the door and yelled for the butler. There was no
answer. Jackson had dismissed the servants for the evening. He
turned back to her. “Don’t move, you—”

He was heading out the door. “Where are you
going?” she cried in a panic.

“Where do you think?”