The Princess & the Pea (41 page)

He sat down beside her, his worried gaze searching her face. "I've just returned from London, and Quentin told me about the fire. I hope your daughter has not suffered any ill effects from her escapade?"

Phoebe noted a slight shade of disapproval in his tone. "She's quite well, thank you. I find myself today marveling at her courage."

"Courage?" Robin raised a condescending brow. "Recklessness is the more appropriate term, I should think."

"Do you?" she murmured, surprised by her own annoyance at his attitude.

"It scarcely matters. My purpose here has far more to do with you than your daughter. The fire simply provided an appropriate excuse." He took her hands in his. "I have come for your answer, Phoebe."

"Robin ..." she said, her words measured. She tried to withdraw from his grasp, but his fingers held firm. "I don't know why you feel any relationship between us is even possible—"

"I love you, Phoebe." His blue eyes burned with desire. "I always have. I always will."

"Robin—"

"And you love me as well." His voice was intense with certainty. "I know it."

She jerked her hands from his and rose to unsteady feet. He jumped up, as if unwilling to let her put so much as a few inches between them. Why did his mere touch still take her breath away? "I did once, but that was long ago."

"And have you forgotten?" He stood so very close, she could see the rise and fall of his chest. "Have you forgotten how it was between us? The sweet sparks of passion we never allowed to flame?"

"I remember," she whispered and shivered with the memory.

"And do you remember this?" He pulled her unresisting into his arms. "Do you recall how you fit into my embrace as if we were made, one for the other?"

"Yes." She sighed.

"We still fit together, Phoebe." His mouth trailed along the lobe of her ear. and she shuddered at his touch. "Leave him, Phoebe, leave your husband. We should have been together long ago. We can still be together now."

His lips crushed hers and she surrendered to the overwhelming rush of emotion pent up within her for years. This was mere lust, a voice in the back of her mind cried, plain and simple. It was indeed but, oh, for one, long, magnificent moment, wasn't it glorious?

Still, as much as this man made her senses pound and her body tremble, there was something lacking here. As swiftly as the urgent need to cling to him swept over her it vanished. Abruptly, realization struck her, and she knew with the certainty of life itself that whatever desire still lingered for him, whatever questions still haunted her, whatever remnants of a long-ago love still remained were purged with this encounter as surely as if they'd been washed aside by raging waters.

She pulled away from him and stared into azure eyes darkened by passion. "Robin, I am sorry, but"—she shrugged as best she could in his embrace—"there really is nothing left between us."

"Nothing left between us?" His eyes widened incredulously. "But you are in my arms."

"Robin," she said firmly, "this is a mistake."

"It's no mistake." He glared down at her. "The only mistake here is the one you made twenty-three years ago when you left me. When through sheer stupidity you chose to marry some insignificant, provincial," he sputtered as if searching for an appropriate word, "cowboy!"

He released her and she stepped back, shocked at the vehemence in his words. "Have you ever considered what you gave up by that rash act?"

"I know what I gained," she said quietly.

"Hah!" He snorted in disdain. "What could you possibly have gained? Look at your life. Of your children, at least one is a headstrong hellion who will no doubt come to no good-regardless of whom she marries. You move in the limited society of a city whose very existence is scarcely acknowledged in the civilized world. And your husband has certainly progressed far in the years of your marriage, well beyond the dubious skills of herding cattle to something a bit more down to earth."

He raised his brow in a gesture of contempt. "I believe now it would be accurate to refer to him as a glorified ... butcher."

For less than a moment shock held her helpless. Then rage surged through her with a blinding force that shattered years of polite behavior and self-control.

"How dare you insult my husband and my family!" Phoebe cracked her hand across his cheek with the power born of the indignity of today and the bitter betrayal of yesterday. "You arrogant son of a bitch!"

"Phoebe!" He gasped, whether more at the slap or at her language she didn't know.

She clapped a hand over her mouth. She'd never used such language in her life.

"I daresay. I never expected—" Robin stammered"—what I mean to say is—" He drew a deep breath. "I do apologize, Phoebe. Please forgive me. My comments were both uncalled for and untrue. My only excuse is that the thought of losing you once more was more than I could bare. I'm afraid I was simply trying to soothe the pain in my heart by hurting you."

"You no longer have the power to hurt me, Robin." With her cool words came the surprising discovery that they were true. Her feelings for this man were at long last spent.

"I must tell you, Robin. I have done a great deal of thinking since meeting you again. While I may well have loved you once, it was the emotion of an untried girl, a child. The passion I felt for you then was as intense as a summer cloudburst and, no doubt, just as fleeting."

She stared at him for a long considering moment. "True love, Robin, has more to do with living than lust, with sharing hand in hand the day-to-day joys and tragedies of life, and with the unquestioned knowledge that the one nearest and dearest to your heart will always be by your side. It has to do with faith, Robin, and trust, and a certain, quiet passion that springs to life with a gentle kiss or a chance brush of his hand or the meeting of his eyes across a crowded room."

Robin heaved a sigh of defeat. "We never had the chance to know that, did we?"

"No, but I suspect it has all worked out for the best." She smiled. "I mind I am not merely content with my choices but happy as well."

"Then this is good-bye?" A last, hopeful look lingered in his eye.

"Indeed it is," she said softly.

"As well it should be."

Phoebe turned sharply at the familiar voice. Henry stood tall and strong and handsome, with the power still to make her blood pound and her heart flutter. How could she have lost sight of that, even for a moment? He was her rock and she would love him forever. His voice was mild, but menace simmered in his eyes.

Robin's glance slid from Henry to Phoebe and back to her husband. A wry note sounded in his voice. "No doubt my presence is no longer welcome; therefore I shall take my leave. Phoebe, I..." He drew a deep breath. "I wish you all the happiness in the world."

"Thank you, Robin." She cast a quick glance at her husband. "I believe I already have that."

Robin nodded. "Indeed." He turned to Henry. "You are a hlucky man. Take care of her."

Henry's smile never reached his eyes. "I always have."

Robin stared for a moment, men nodded, turned and strode off. Henry's gaze never left the retreating figure, and Phoebe studied him thoughtfully.

"How long were you standing there?" she said.

His gaze met hers, the hard chill in his eyes softening. "Long enough. I arrived just in time to see Bainbridge take you in his arms." A rueful smile touched his lips. "It was all I could do to keep from ripping him apart limb by limb, but I was afraid that might upset you so I refrained."

"Extremely thoughtful of you," she murmured.

He heaved a heavy sigh. "It wasn't easy. But I decided if he was what you wanted," he shrugged, "then I would have to let you have him."

Surprise coursed through her. "Why?"

"Why?" He pulled his gaze from hers and stared at a far distant point, as if he couldn't bear to meet her eyes. "It's not an easy thing to admit. Phoebe, but I have found myself evaluating our life together in recent days, and I have come to realize a number of things. I believe I have taken your presence for granted and treated you somewhat shabbily through the years."

"Henry ..." Her eyes widened with astonishment. "I don't—"

"No." He shook his head firmly. "Please, allow me to continue."

"Very well." She stared, fascinated by the tension in every line of his body. Apparently this admission was far more difficult for him than she would have imagined. She bit back an inadvertent smile. It was altogether charming of him to worry that anything he said would make any real difference in her feelings.

He pulled a deep breath. "I have paid far more attention to business, to achieving what I believe is a respectable amount of success, than I have to your happiness."

"Why, Henry, I—"

"Phoebe." His gaze again locked with hers. "Since your renewed acquaintance with Bainbridge I have worried that I would lose you to him, to your first love." His dark eyes flashed with an intensity that stole her breath and weakened her knees. "But a few moments ago, when you told him ... well... that you were happy, did you mean it?"

"With all my heart," she said with earnest conviction. Relief and joy broke in his eyes and he swept her into his arms.

"Phoebe ..." His lips claimed hers with all the passion of a new love, and she met him just as eagerly.

He drew his mouth from hers and drifted it along her neck. Shivers of pure delight coursed through her. Goodness, what would people think? Such scandalous behavior, here in the garden, with her husband? She wanted to laugh aloud.

"Phoebe," his words whispered against her skin. "I want always to share life's joy and tragedies with you, to be always by your side, to be forever the gaze you meet across a room."

She sighed with pleasure. "So you heard all that, did you?"

"Indeed," he murmured. "And more. It was extremely informative. I never suspected ..." he feathered kisses along her neck"... you even knew the term 'arrogant son-of-a-bitch.'"

"Henry!" She jerked back, heat flashing up her face.

He laughed and refused to let her out of his arms. "As surprising as it was, I must say it was also appropriate."

"He was being quite horrid," she said defensively.

"Quite." Henry grinned, then pulled her close, a serious light in his eye. "Things will change between us, Phoebe, I promise. I can well afford to leave my affairs in the competent hands of trusted employees. After all, their fortunes are tied to ours. You have always wanted to travel. Paris shall be just the beginning." He stared down at her and her heart stilled, and she wondered just how wicked it would be to retire to their bed in the middle of the afternoon. "Where would you like to go first?"

"I should very much like to go home, Henry. As for now." she bit her bottom lip and prayed he would not think her too wanton, "perhaps we are both in need ... um ... after the stressful hours of this morning, that is ... I should think a rest... ?" She gazed at him hopefully.

He stared for a puzzled moment. Then a slow grin spread across his face. "A rest?"

Dreaded heat again flushed her cheeks, but she lifted her chin to meet his gaze directly. She nodded. "A rest."

Henry tucked her hand in the crook of his arm and started toward the castle. "My only desire is to ensure your happiness. And if a rest is what you wish, a rest is what you shall have." A low chuckle rumbled through him. "I can't think of a more delightful way to spend the afternoon."

"Frankly, Henry"—she stopped and cast him a bold smile—"neither can I."

It was his third whiskey, or his fifth or more, Jared had lost count long ago. It didn't matter and he didn't care. In one hand he gripped a glass, in the other a decanter with steadily shrinking contents. Scotch whiskey was not generally his drink of choice, but it had been his experience in the past that, when oblivion was the goal, this liquor was the method. And oblivion was what he sought now.

"Bloody hell," he muttered to the world in general and no one in particular. He'd come straight to the castle library on his return home, straight to blessed solitude, straight to the pungent, powerful liquor. Soot still covered him. a gritty, uncomfortable coating that chaffed his skin and filled his nostrils with the lingering scent of wood smoke and treachery.

How could she?

The words pounded in his head in an unceasing refrain. How could she have so little faith? So little trust? After all her fine words about a man making his own fortune, about a man laboring to achieve his goals, to resort to using her wealth to ensure his success was the height of hypocrisy and betrayal.

Obviously that was all her high-and-noble speeches were: mere words without a shred of truth behind them. He was nothing short of a fool to have thought she could truly have considered him capable of achieving his dreams on his own.

He pulled another swig of the potent alcohol. The whiskey did nothing to dull the hard, hot pain that simmered within him. The irony of it all drew a bitter smile to his lips. He had so ardently believed in her false vows of confidence, he had even threatened to give up his home, his heritage, to return with her to America and build a life with her there, a life of struggle and hard work in a gamble that it would someday pay off with prosperity. Prosperity achieved by his own two hands, with her at his side.

How could he have been so wrong about her? In spite of her words, he should have known she could never live without the vast wealth that was her birthright. Hadn't she just proved to him that when it came to getting exactly what she wanted, she would not hesitate to use her fortune? It didn't matter that she used it for him.

"Do you plan on hiding in here all day?" Olivia's voice sounded from the doorway.

"I am not hiding." There was a warning beneath his words. "Leave me alone, Mother."

She ignored him. "You look frightful. Why, you haven't even cleaned up from the fire."

He stared sightlessly before him. The last thing he wanted now was companionship, especially his mother's. "I have other things on my mind."

"So I understand," she said mildly.

Her words caught his attention, and he jerked his gaze to hers. "What do you mean?"