Angel Rogue

Chapter 36

Maxie felt as if she were wandering in a shadow land of evil dreams, but knew that there would be no awakening. Her father had taken his own life, and the knowledge was a pain more devastating than she could have imagined.

Burrowed into her pillows like a woodland creature seeking refuge, she lost track of the hours. The pattern of sunlight slowly shifted across the floor, then disappeared as clouds obscured the sky. Someone entered and left a tray of food, then left without speaking. The room darkened, and eventually the sounds of the household faded as night deepened.

When a distant clock struck midnight, Maxie forced herself to sit up and take stock. She couldn't spend the rest of her life hiding in a bedchamber. How much time would have to pass before her hosts would feel compelled to coax her out-twentyfour hours? Three days? A week? Or would Margot's superb hospitality allow Maxie to stay here forever, a mad mourner served by silent maids?

Even if the duchess would allow that, Robin wouldn't. Maxie buried her head in her hands, wondering dully what would happen next. Finally it was clear why she had been unable to sense her path beyond London. The unthinkable had happened, and now she felt suspended, unable to go forward, unable to retreat, too numb to imagine anything resembling normal life.

Wearily she slid from the bed and found her dressing gown, one of the garments that had magically appeared in her wardrobe the day before. She stopped and thought. Had she really been in London only two days? It seemed a century since she had arrived, met Margot and her aunt, and seriously misbehaved in the garden.

Even that last memory was not enough to warm her.

She belted the robe around her narrow waist, then lit a candle and used it.to light her way down to the library. Books had never failed to make her feel better. Perhaps being surrounded by them would help clear her dazed mind.

There was a desk at the far end of the library. She settled into the leather upholstered chair behind it. The room was cool, and occasional raindrops spatted against the windows. Myriad volumes lined the room in friendly ranks, their titles reflecting dull gold in the candlelight. As she inhaled the pleasant scents of leather bindings and furniture polish, mingled with a faded tang of smoke, the knot in her chest eased a little.

A walnut box of pipe tobacco stood on one side of the desk. Moved by dim memory, she opened the box and put a large pinch of tobacco in a shallow china bowl intended for ashes. Then she used the candle to set the shredded leaf afire.

The pungent scent carried her back to ceremonies she had attended in her childhood. Among her mother's people, tobacco was considered sacred, and it was burned to carry prayers to the spirit world.

But as she watched the smoke twist and dissolve into blackness, Maxie was not even sure what to pray for.

It had been a long day, and Candover House was completely dark when Robin returned. Still, with the considerable help of Lucien and a startled but cooperative Simmons, he had found the information he wanted. Perhaps tomorrow Maxie would be willing to listen.

He let himself in with the key Maggie had given him. He had just relocked the massive front door when his instincts sounded a warning note. After a moment of intense stillness, reaching out with his senses, he recognized what was amiss. Though the household slept, there was a fresh scent of burning tobacco here on a floor that had no bedchambers.

Probably it meant no more than that a servant had smoked while checking that the doors were locked, or that Rafe was working late. Nonetheless, Robin followed the scent to the library, where a sliver of light showed beneath the door.

He entered quietly. Maxie was sitting at the far end of the room, her straight ebony hair cascading over her shoulders and her gaze fixed absently on a spiral of fragrant smoke. Though he was glad she had risen from her bed, her expression was bleak and infinitely distant. It hurt to see the dimming of her spirit. Perhaps what he had learned might rekindle her essential flame.

She looked up without surprise. "Good evening. Have you been skulking about London?"

"Exactly." He walked the length of the room and took a chair near her. Since she was barefoot and wore only a light robe over her shift, he took off his coat, removed several folded sheets of paper from an inside pocket, then offered it to her. "You must be freezing. Put this on."

She accepted the garment mechanically and draped it over her shoulders. She looked very small in the folds of dark fabric.

"I've learned some things I think you'll find interesting," Robin said. "Can you bear to listen now, or should I wait?"

She made a vague gesture with her hand. "It doesn't matter. Now will do if that's what you wish."

Wondering what it would take to break through her lethargy, he said, "Lord Collingwood called here today. His judgment might have been doubtful, but his intentions were good when he hired Simmons to prevent you from reaching London and investigating your father's death. Simmons is a Bow Street Runner."

She dropped another pinch of tobacco on the smoldering pile. "What is a Bow Street Runner?"

"A thief taker. Mostly they work for the chief magistrate of Westminister, whose office is in Bow Street, hence the name," Robin explained. "However, Runners can be hired by private citizens for special tasks, which is what your uncle did."

Maxie nodded without interest.

"Collingwood also said that your GreatAunt Maxima left you five hundred pounds a year, but specified that you couldn't receive it until you were over twentyfive and your father had died. Apparently your greataunt had doubts about your father's financial capabilities."

The faintest of smiles touched Maxie's lips. "Justifiably so. Max was hopeless about money. It didn't interest him."

After a slow breath, Robin went to the crux of his story. "Though he may have concealed it from you, your father's health had apparently been deteriorating for some time. When he came to London, he not only called on your aunt's executor to learn the details of your legacy, he also visited two physicians. Both said that your father's heart was failing. However, it was possible that he might survive a long time as an invalid, in pain and unable to live the life he was accustomed to."

Maxie's head came up at that, her brown eyes finally meeting his, but she didn't speak. She scarcely seemed to breathe.

"I talked to several other people whom your father saw in the days before he died." Robin raised the papers he had removed from his coat, then set them on the desk. "Based on the details in here, I'd be willing to take an oath in court that your father decided to end his life so that you could inherit right away, and to spare you the grief of nursing him through a slow death. It's also a fair guess that he didn't want to die that way, helplessly waiting for the end. He knew your uncle would look out for you, so he wasn't leaving you alone."

Maxie was trembling, and her tongue licked out to moisten her dry lips. "How… how did he do it?"

"With a massive dose of digitalis, a heart medication that is a poison in large quantities. Both physicians had given him some, warning him to be careful how much he used because it can be fatal. It seems likely that your father thought he would have time to dispose of the bottles, but the medicine overcame him very quickly. If he'd had a little more time, no one would have realized that he hadn't died naturally."

Robin paused to let her absorb that before he finished, "Your father didn't abandon you carelessly, but because he cared so much. I think he wanted to give you, with his death, the security he was unable to give you in life. He was wrong not to know that you would rather have had him for whatever months or years were left, but his action sprang from love."

Maxie's brown eyes came alive then. She buried her face in her hands and whispered, "I don't know why, but that makes all the difference in the world."

"You and your father were everything to each other," Robin said quietly., "No matter how insulting strangers were, no matter how much you were taunted for your Mohawk blood, you always knew that your father loved you. To believe that he had killed himself, with no word or thought for you, was like being told that your whole life had been built on a lie."

She raised her head and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "How did you know that when I didn't?"

"By delving into the shadowy corners of my mind, you also opened yourself to me." He stepped over to her and covered her ears. "When a woman mourns, she cannot hear," he quoted. "Let these words remove the obstruction so you can hear again."

He laid his hands lightly over her eyes. "In your grief, you have lost the sun and fallen into darkness. I now restore the sunlight."

He knelt before her so that their eyes were at the same level, then crossed his hands on the center of her chest. Her heart beat steadily against his palms. "You have allowed your mind to dwell on your great grief. You must release it lest you, too, wither and die."

He took her hands in his. "In your sorrow your bed has become uncomfortable and you cannot sleep at night. Let me remove the discomfort from your resting place." He raised her hands and kissed first one, then the other. "More than anything else in his life, your father wanted you to be happy. For his sake, you must find your way out of the darkness."

She closed her eyes, tears running down her cheeks. "How did you remember all that, Robin?" she whispered.

"The words are graven on my heart, Kanawiosta."

Opening her eyes, she said, "My father and I never discussed his health. He hated being weak. To take his own life, knowing that I would benefit and he would be spared suffering-it is exactly the sort of thing he would do, but I was too selfishly wrapped up in my grief to see that for myself." She gave a damp sounding laugh. "Leave it to Max to be inefficient about ending his life. Without me, he was hopelessly disorganized."

"The most important things are always the hardest to see." Profoundly glad that she could laugh again, Robin released her hands and got to his feet, then leaned against the desk. Now that she had passed the crisis, he was acutely aware of her nearness, and her utter, unselfconscious desirability. Looking for distraction, his gaze fell on the burning tobacco. "Is there a special meaning to this?"

"Tobacco is sacred to my mother's people. It's burned to carry prayers and wishes to the spirits."

As Robin had said before, he believed in making sacrifices to the gods of fortune. He took a pinch of dried leaf and dropped it on the smoldering mound.

"What did you wish for?" she asked.

"If I tell you, will it prevent the wish from coming true?"

She smiled. "I don't think it makes a difference."

A moment ago, he had told himself that it was not the time to speak, but when he saw her irresistible smile he threw caution to the winds. "I was wishing you would marry me."

Her levity faded and she leaned back in the chair, tugging the coat around her. It had a faint, friendly scent of Robin. She had wanted the garment because in the future, when she was alone, it would remind her of what it was like to be in his arms. "That's a dangerous habit you have, offering marriage. If you aren't careful, I might accept."

"I would like nothing better," he said gravely.

She sighed and glanced down at her linked hands. While the question of her father's death was unresolved, she had been able to avoid this discussion, but she no longer had an excuse.

She raised her head and studied him. Robin was only an arm's length away physically, yet his blondness, casual confidence, and bone deep aristocratic elegance represented a chasm too wide to bridge. "I think we are too different, Robin. I'm the child of a wastrel book peddler and a woman considered a savage by your countrymen. You are born of centuries of wealth, breeding, and privilege." She tried to speak evenly, as if her conclusion were easy and obvious. "The idea of marriage appeals to you now, but I think in time you would come to regret it."

"Would you have regrets?" he asked softly.

"Certainly I would if you did," she replied, knowing that her simple words contained the essence of the dilemma. Loving him, she would be unable to endure his regrets. No matter how carefully he hid them under politeness and charm, she would know.

"You're wrong, you know. The differences between us are superficial, but the similarities are profound," he said intensely. "We were both born outsiders, Maxie. In your case, it was because of your mixed blood, never wholly belonging with either your father's or your mother's people. I know something of what you endured because in spite of wealth, privilege, and endless noble ancestors, I was a natural misfit, no more at home in my world than you were in yours.

"Perhaps it would have been different if I'd had a mother, or if my father had been able to bear the sight of me." His expression became ironic. "But I probably would have been a misfit even if my mother had survived. Every generation or two the Andrevilles throw up a black sheep, and my keepers were convinced that I was one before I was out of leading strings. Something had only to be forbidden to attract me. Everything I did was wrong, proof of my natural wickedness. I questioned things that shouldn't be questioned, disobeyed orders I disagreed with, made up stories that were seen as malicious lies."

He held up his misshapen left hand. "The Latin word for left is sinister, which says a great deal about how lefthanders are perceived. The tutor I had before I went away to school thought I used left hand just to spite him. Sometimes he tied it behind my back so I must use the right, other times he beat my left palm with a brass ruler until it bled." He smiled without humor. "I was probably one of the few boys in England who thought that public school was an improvement over life at home."

For the first time, she fully understood the desolation of his childhood. No wonder he thought he wasn't very good at love. How had he survived with his humor and sanity and kindness intact? Her heart ached for him and Giles, two lonely boys who deserved so much better than what they had received. Thank God they had at least had each other.

Still… "Granted that both of us grew up feeling like outsiders," she said slowly. "Is that enough of a bond to hold us together? Are we defined by our weaknesses?"

"Not by our weaknesses, but by our trust." In his white shirtsleeves he looked lean and strong and overpoweringly attractive as he lounged against the desk, his hands curved around the edge. "We dare show our weaknesses only to those we hope will understand and accept us in spite of them. Even when I scarcely knew you, I found myself speaking of things I have told no one else, had barely even admitted to myself."

"That is part of what worries me, Robin," she said, matching honesty with honesty. "I wonder if you want to marry me because I was there when you were hurting. Have you come to think I am special because you needed to talk and I listened? Would any woman have done as well?"

"Do you think so little of my judgment?" He smiled with a sweetness and intimacy that melted her heart. "No other woman could ever be the same. With you, I am whole."

Seeing that she still hesitated, he said softly, "You taught me many things, but most of all, about love." He took a deep breath. "And I do love you, Kanawiosta."

Maxie sucked in her breath as she heard the words she had never thought to hear. "You said you were not very good at love."

"I didn't think I was, but between you and Giles, I've recently received an intensive education in the subject," he said wryly. "I believed that I loved Maggie as much as I was capable of, and that she left me because it wasn't enough, because there was some vital deficiency in me. Now I know it was not that I was incapable of loving more, but that I had not met the woman I could truly fall in love with. Maggie tried to explain that to me once, but it was beyond my understanding."

He was silent as he searched for words. "With Maggie, there were always emotional limits. With you, Kanawiosta, there are none." His knuckles whitened as he gripped the edge of the desk. "The morning we left Ruxton, you implied rather strongly that you loved me. Was that wishful thinking on my part?"

His words were a shining joy that filled her like the sun's radiance. "Lord, Robin, of course I love you," she whispered. "All my talk of our differences, my doubts about England-they were only smoke. My true fear was that I cared too much to be your wife if you didn't love me."

His coat fell from her shoulders as she stood and opened her arms. Robin walked straight into them.

From the beginning, their bodies had known that it was utterly right to be together. This time there was no doubt, only fierce, compelling desire.

They were lying on the Persian carpet, most of their clothing off, when Robin pulled back. "Damnation, I'm doing it again." He rested his forehead on her bare breast, his chest heaving. "I have trouble remembering that you don't want to make love in this house. I'm sorry." He smiled ruefully. "A pity it's too cold and wet for the garden tonight."

He was starting to move away when she slid her arms around his neck. "No need to go all noble, Robin. Now that I know that you love me, being here doesn't bother me at all."

His face became vivid with laughter. "I'm very, very glad to hear that,"

He bent to her breasts again. She arched against him in wordless response to his mouth and hands and intoxicating nearness. Even more than fire, there was tenderness and understanding and mirth, all woven together into an emotion far greater than the sum of its parts.

This time passion was not a gift of solace, but a sharing of their innermost selves. She felt as if she were soaring through the tangled skeins of his spirit. Though the dark strands were still there, they no longer shivered with anguish, while the bright, sunspun threads of his being flowed around her with joy and laughter, together, they were whole.

Afterward she lay trembling on top of him, her hair spilling over his chest and face. Tenderly he smoothed it back so that he could see her face. "Really, love, we're going to have to get back into the habit of doing this in a bed. Stone altars and library floors definitely have their place now and then, but they aren't especially comfortable."

She stretched her body along his, loving his lean strength. "It's very comfortable where I am."

He smiled. "You do make a superlative blanket."

She crossed her arms on his chest and rested her chin on them. "Feeling like a hopeless outsider is wretched when one is growing up," she said thoughtfully, "but from what I can see, many interesting people start out that way."

"I've noticed that." He stroked her naked back lovingly. "I've also found that one needn't stay a misfit forever."

She grinned. "The two of us fit together perfectly."

After a spell of peaceful silence, Robin murmured, "You're sure it didn't bother you to make love here?"

"Quite sure," she said lazily.

He linked his arms around her and rolled swiftly over so that he was above. Her raven hair wove ebony patterns across the burgundy patterns of the Persian rug, framing her exotically beautiful face.

"In that case, my love," he said softly, "let's do it again."