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Coming January 2004 Pre-Order Seen By Moonlight
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Chapter One Lexington, Virginia. March 1861
Winter entered the little frame house, an angry gust of bitter wind ushering Carlyle through the door. Would spring never come this year? How she longed to see the red-plumed cardinals perched amidst the apple blossoms. Annabelle stifled a sigh. Maybe tomorrow. “Where’s Bo?” asked Carlyle as he removed his overcoat and tossed it on Papa’s empty chair. Empty chair, empty house ... empty Annabelle, she thought. “I sent him on some errands,” she said. “I didn’t want him here for this.” It struck her for the first time. Carlyle had become a man. Handsome, in the same classical manner as Mama’s people, but more so. Mama would be so proud of him now. Like Carlyle, Mama would have believed in this coming war, this coming madness. Carlyle stared at her for the longest time, his blue eyes cloudy instead of bright. She held his gaze until, finally, he looked away, tugging at his gray uniform jacket. “You don’t have to do this,” he said. “I’ll figure out something.” “What?” she said, trying desperately to keep the sarcasm out of her voice. “When Virginia secedes, we won’t be militia any longer, we’ll be army. I’ll give you my pay. You and Bo can live on that.” “And when that grand day comes, Lieutenant Hallston, what do you live on? Your handsome Confederate looks?” She turned her back on her brother, berating herself for her own stupidity. All those months, she’d believed Papa. Don’t worry, Annabelle, he’d said. And like a silly goose, she’d believed him, had taken the five dollars, or the ten dollars, and paid Bo’s tutor, bought food, coal, sent money to Carlyle. We women have to take care of our men. Mama had known. Well, Annabelle knew now too. She’d take care of her men, the two who were left to her. She just couldn’t stand to look at Carlyle right this minute because something deep inside her wanted to scream at him: Take care of me. He followed her into the kitchen. She scooped coffee beans out of the canister and dumped them into the hopper of the iron mill. “Where’s Gordon?” she asked as she proceeded to turn the handle. “He’s not coming.” She stopped and turned around. “Don’t worry,” said Carlyle. “He’ll go along with whatever you decide.” She could think of nothing to say. She turned back to making the coffee. Heavy hands landed on her shoulders. “We’ll sell the house. I don’t need it and you and Bo can live with Uncle Richard.” Didn’t he know she’d racked her brain for days now trying to come up with a solution? Thought until her mind, and her heart, were both ready to explode while he dressed in a new gray uniform and marched with a new rifle. She couldn’t stifle this sigh. “The house is mortgaged for twelve hundred dollars. It isn’t worth eight hundred, even with everything in it. There’s Bo’s education, the doctor bills, the funeral ... ” She turned around, shrugging out of Carlyle’s grasp. “Uncle Richard—” he said. “Uncle Richard stopped by the other day on his way to Abingdon.” To train militia, she thought. All of Virginia’s sons gone mad with war fever. “And?” “And he’s a little overextended, furnishing horses and guns to the Confederacy. Could I please pay back the fifty dollars Papa borrowed. Not that there’s any rush, mind you. Just when we get around to settling Papa’s estate.” “Damn.” Two spots of color brightened his high cheekbones. She hoped, maybe, he felt a little bit guilty for all those months he’d been playing at war while Papa died from a tumor and borrowed money to keep the family fed. She suspected the color came from his impotent anger. Annabelle brushed her hands down the front of her apron and turned back to making the coffee. She listened to the clicking of Carlyle’s boots on the pine floor, each tap driving another nail into her heart. She’d filled the sugar bowl and poured cream in the little pitcher before he stopped pacing. She watched him jam his hands on his hipbones and they stood like that, brother and sister, staring at one another while the coffee burped on the heat behind her and the harsh wind rattled the window panes. “What was he thinking? I can’t believe Father would do this to you.” She couldn’t believe it either but there was no point in dwelling on that riddle. She shrugged. The door chime sounded and her heart ceased beating. She stared at the brass buttons on his uniform jacket and wondered if he knew how frightened, how humiliated she felt; wondered if he knew he was only making matters harder. And if he knew, did he care? Lately, it seemed he didn’t care about anything except whupping Yankees, not even Papa’s lingering death. She could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times he’d visited their dying father. Carlyle stepped forward and gripped her arms, squeezing painfully through the brown serge of her sleeves. “I won’t let you do this, Annabelle.” She lifted her gaze. “You can’t stop me.” He let go of her arms but his face remained hard. “Would you get the door, please?” she said quietly. “I’d like a minute alone.” He rubbed his face in his hands, a childish gesture of futility she hadn’t seen him employ in years. She almost smiled; maybe he did care. He left her, his boots tap, tap, tapping down the hallway. She heard the front door open and the sound of male voices. She removed her apron, folded it carefully and set it on top of the plank work table. You can do this, she thought, calming her racing heart. She lifted the tin coffeepot and transferred the contents into Mama’s heirloom silver pot. What are you doing, she thought as frantic laughter rose in her chest. Annabelle bit her lip to hold back the craziness and pinched her cheeks to give them some color. She brushed her sweaty palms down the front of her dress and lifted Mama’s silver coffee service into her hands. By the time she reached the parlor, her hands no longer trembled. # Royce heard the clicking of her boot heels down the passageway and looked toward the doorway. Her brother stepped forward, taking the coffee service from her hands and, for the space of a heartbeat, she looked as if she’d lost her anchor. With a slight brush of her fingers against her skirt and the tiniest lift of her shoulders, she regained control. Peyton Kincaid and his lawyer, Mr. Jarvis, rose, each bowing. Royce intentionally remained seated, his legs stretched in front of him. He didn’t want Peyton to think he’d come around to accepting this blackmail and he sure didn’t want to give her the wrong impression. Like maybe, Peyton’s eldest son was really a gentleman. With slow, insolent deliberation, he checked her over like a filly in the auction tent. Not far off the mark, come to think of it. She wore her pride like a suit of armor and it was a hell of a lot more becoming than that ugly brown dress. On the other hand, she should be clad in black bombazine, mourning her dear, departed father. If she had enough courage to flout that convention, maybe she had guts enough to face down the Kincaids. He tried to remember the last time he’d seen her, before he went west. She’d have been about fourteen, usually barefoot, her skin a little too browned by the sun. As a child, she’d been an elfin little thing, a wood sprite hanging upside down from the branch of an oak tree or sprinting across the lawn with her skirts kilted up, skinny legs pumping through the air, always searching for Gordon and Carlyle. She’d grown up since then, not much taller, but definitely more womanly. Ignoring his insolent perusal, she crossed over to greet Peyton. To Royce’s surprise, his father leaned his royal, silver head down and brushed her forehead with a fatherly kiss. “Annie, I remember another time, a night at Riverbend when a young lady danced her first waltz with an old man. Do you remember?” His father smiled, waiting, he supposed, for an answering smile. If that’s what Peyton waited for, she didn’t cooperate. She closed her eyes and seemed to pull inside herself, as if the memory brought her pain. Royce felt the contempt swell up in his throat. He understood his father’s Machiavellian scheming. He understood her own father’s thoughts, tilting at windmills in his own bemused fashion. Royce doubted she had a clue to either. She recovered rapidly. “I’ve never forgotten, Mr. Kincaid. I drank my first champagne that night, too,” she said. Her voice sounded soft, lyrical. And immeasurably sad. Mr. Jarvis cleared his throat and she turned to face him. A smile tugged at Royce’s lips. So far, she’d managed to ignore him completely. “Will your lawyer be attending this, uh, meeting?” asked Jarvis, addressing his question to Carlyle. Carlyle shifted from one foot to the other. “No,” he said, avoiding his sister’s warning glance by surveying the patterns in the worn Turkish carpet. “I told Miss Hallston when she brought me these requests that she should have an attorney representing her interests. Didn’t she tell you?” “Carlyle represents my interests,” said Annabelle. Unexpected anger flooded Royce, watching her stiffen her spine while her worthless, hot spur brother shifted uncomfortably from one foot to another. They all knew she couldn’t pay a lawyer. “Shall we begin, gentlemen,” she said, gesturing toward the table in the center of the room. “I’d like to have this over before Bo returns.” Unlike most parlor tables, hers lacked the heavy decorative cloth considered by most housewives as de rigueur. A single kerosene lamp sat in the center of the polished walnut top, the glass chimney free of soot. He guessed the table was a Duncan Phyfe, an heirloom passed down from the glory days of her mother’s family. Her pride was a palpable thing, evident in her surroundings as much as in her carriage. His indifference drained away, replaced with a crazy urge to protect her pride. “Not yet, Miss Hallston,” he said, rising. She shot him a startled look. He ignored both his father’s patrician scowl and Carlyle’s belligerence. He crossed the room in three strides, taking her elbow in his hand to prevent her from sitting. “Is there someplace we can have a word in private before we begin?” She glanced at Carlyle, seemed to realize there was no help from that quarter, and then nodded with visible reluctance. “Papa’s study,” she said. “I’m sure these gentlemen can find something to discuss while they wait,” he said, guiding her toward the parlor door. Carlyle stepped in front of the passage. “The weather, the grand and glorious war we’re about to embark on,” he continued, holding his gaze on Carlyle’s flushed face. Carlyle blinked and stepped aside. Royce dropped his hand from her elbow as they reached the hall. “This way,” she said in a quiet tone. Royce followed her down the hallway thinking how strange it was that she made him want to smile by simply nudging her chin up defiantly while her ladylike voice said all the proper words. Once inside her father’s library, he deliberately closed the door and then leaned against it. She met his gaze for the space of several heartbeats, then turned away, studying the shelves of leather bound books as if she’d never seen them before. He allowed the silence to grow, testing her mettle. Her iron-forged spine stiffened only a little. He controlled his urge to laugh. “What did you want to say, Mr. Kincaid?” She turned around then, meeting his look. There was nothing coy or blushing about her. Instead, her demeanor was all business, one negotiator facing another. “You don’t have to go along with this coercion,” he said. “Really?” One delicate brow lifted. “Your father owns the mortgage to this house, plus several more hundred dollars he loaned my father based on that agreement. What happens to Bo if I refuse?” “The old man might be bluffing.” She hadn’t yet learned how to hide her emotions. Hope flashed in her eyes, followed by resignation. Her gaze dropped to her father’s desk and she began to trace her hand over the wood grain top. “Where’s Ft. Laramie?” she asked. “On the North Platte River,” he said, startled by the question that was so far off the subject. She glanced at the large globe standing in the corner of the room as if considering whether or not to search for the North Platte River. “Nebraska Territory,” he added. She acknowledged the information with slight nod. “How long have you been home?” “I resigned my commission just after the election.” Usually adept at keeping one step ahead of an opponent, he couldn’t figure out where she was headed with this line of questioning. “Because of this or because of the war?” “Have I missed something? What war?” She gave him a withering look and he wiped the taunting smile from his face. She hadn’t asked for this any more than he had. “I didn’t know anything about this arrangement either until after I’d been back awhile. Actually, it was your father, not mine, who first mentioned it,” he said, watching her closely for her reaction. She bridled immediately. “That’s not true. Papa was too sick to go to Riverbend and you were never here.” Hurt darkened her eyes. He knew she didn’t want to believe him. She’d evidently never figured out her beloved Papa had seen only his sons while using his daughter as housewife and substitute mother. This was going to be hard enough on both of them. He could allow her to save some of her fantasy, but he wasn’t about to make it more difficult by lying to her. “Your father sent me a letter attempting to explain,” said Royce. For a moment, the rage overwhelmed him again, the same cold fury he’d felt when he confronted his own father. He shouldn’t have been surprised. Peyton Kincaid had spent a lifetime manipulating others to his own purposes. Those few who wouldn’t be manipulated, he’d tried to bend, to break, usually successfully. Royce had spent his lifetime refusing to bend. He was bending now and didn’t like the sensation. But he’d go through with this farce if she was willing. Not for her sake. No, as far as he was concerned, the proud Miss Hallston could sink or swim on her own merits. He’d bend to his father’s will for Gordon’s sake and no other reason. Of course, Prince Machiavelli had known that and used it to his own advantage. She turned away and walked toward the window. Drawing aside the dark velvet drapes, she stood perfectly still, gazing into the yard. Royce crossed his arms on his chest and waited. “He’s not bluffing,” she said finally. “What makes you so certain?” Royce knew the old man never bluffed; he wanted to know her reasoning. “You’re not here because you want to marry me, Mr. Kincaid.” She turned back to face him. “He’s got some sword hanging over your head, too.” He nodded, accepting her observation while refusing to comment on it. She waited expectantly, and then her lips twitched, as if she wanted to smile. “I won’t ask, Mr. Kincaid. In fact, I’m rather certain I don’t want to know what it is,” she said and he added perception to her growing list of admirable qualities. “I would like to know what my father said in his letter.” Her father had been one of the few men he respected, until the arrival of that letter. Then he suspected the unlikely friendship between Peyton Kincaid and Thomas Hallston wasn’t so unlikely after all. By forcing her into this arrangement, her father had provided for Carlyle and Bo while she paid the price for both. His father gained the satisfaction of bending his oldest son to his will and, once again, she was the one who would pay most dearly. He almost wanted to warn her away but didn’t. He was just as evil as either of the two older men because he’d let her pay in order to save Gordon. She didn’t recognize the ugly picture yet and he suddenly hoped she never would. “Your father saw a bloody war coming and a way to protect his children,” said Royce, revealing only the kindest portion of Thomas Hallston’s reasoning while couching it in terms that included her. A smile definitely played at the corner of her lips. An unfamiliar ache filled his chest. “He’s mad past recovery, but yet has lucid intervals,” she said softly. Caught somewhere between sympathy and amusement, he gave her a wink. “Tis the only comfort of the miserable to have partners in their woes.” “Papa was rather Quixotic, wasn’t he?” The smile began in her eyes, a spark of gold in the twilight brown. And like a sunrise over the river, the light spread, creating a shadowed crease in her cheek and catching her lips in rosy splendor. It was a smile full of dawn’s promise and it transformed her into a rare and precious beauty. He dropped his arms to his side and straightened, for the first time wondering if maybe he shouldn’t be the one to walk away before this went any further. “If you can quote Cervantes, Miss Hallston, I’m sure we’ll be able to find something to discuss at the dinner table,” he said, taking her arm. “Now, I’m going to ask you a question.” She allowed his hand to remain at her elbow but looked away as he began to guide her from the room and for that, he was grateful. He chose his women based on the lushness of their bodies and the looseness of their morals. He didn’t want to think about thin ladies with gold in their eyes. “If you don’t believe Peyton Kincaid is bluffing, why did you add conditions to his terms?” She stopped and looked up, meeting his questioning gaze, while that smile once again threatened to explode. “Do you read Shakespeare too, Mr. Kincaid?” she asked, and once again she’d outmaneuvered him with a question he didn’t understand. He nodded. “Do you know what day this is?” she continued. There was a method in her madness. He bit back a smile. “The Ides of March,” he said. “You’re testing, Miss Hallston—but do you remember what happened to old Julius?” Gold sparked in her eyes. “Oh, certainly. It’s just that I always wanted to live dangerously.” “Miss Hallston, I do believe you’re going to get your wish.” Her smile exploded. He lost his breath. # Carlyle met them as they re-entered the parlor and jerked his sister’s elbow away from Kincaid’s touch. He wondered why she’d allowed it, surely her skin must be crawling. Carlyle made no effort to mask his hatred, confronting Kincaid’s cold, gray eyes with his own hot anger. If the bastard felt any emotion, it was well hidden. The other men, Jarvis and Peyton, were dressed appropriately in well tailored black frock coats, gleaming white shirts with stiff, boiled collars and silk cravats tied in the four-in-hand style. Carlyle had intentionally worn his dress uniform, the one Annabelle had made for him just two months ago. Annabelle, probably hoping to make some kind of feminine impression on Kincaid, had dressed in her good brown serge instead of proper mourning attire. He doubted Royce Kincaid even noticed. In contrast, Royce wore buckskin breeches that hugged his muscular thighs in an unseemly fashion. His collarless chamois shirt was cut loose and flowing, gaping open at the neck and displaying too much bronzed skin. He looked like some strange cross between a Plains Indian and a buccaneer, and handsome as sin. Carlyle glanced at Annabelle. Her gaze followed Royce around the table. She didn’t seem to realize she was out-classed, out-gunned and out-maneuvered. She didn’t stand a chance fighting on the same field as the disreputable Royce Kincaid and there was nothing he could do to save her. Except kill the bastard, which was an option he hadn’t discounted yet. Carlyle watched as Royce seated himself in the only remaining seat, between Mr. Jarvis at the head of the table and Peyton, who sat across from Annabelle. Royce angled the chair and propped his ankle on his knee. The posture was proof of the man’s arrogance and the positioning ideal. He’d effectively removed himself from the proceedings while placing himself in a position to observe both Annabelle and Peyton without being obvious. Jarvis waited for Royce to be seated and then cleared his throat. Already, Carlyle found that habit annoying. “Four months ago, Mr. Peyton Kincaid and Mr. Thomas Hallston entered into a contractual agreement,” said Jarvis. “Both parties being of sound mind at the time, the contract was duly signed and witnessed and is therefore legal and binding upon the involved parties.” His annoyance escalating into anger, Carlyle interrupted. “We know that, Mr. Jarvis. What I’d like to know is why my sister asked for this meeting. She can say yes; she can say no. I see no reason for us to be sitting here today and Annabelle has not chosen to confide in me.” He turned to Peyton Kincaid. “You’ve placed my sister in an untenable position, Mr. Kincaid, and there’s no point in any of us pretending otherwise. Would you please instruct your lawyer to get to the crux of the issue because I, personally, find the odor in this room offensive.” Peyton fingered the carved ivory tip of his walking stick and smiled benignly. “Annabelle understands the terms of the agreement. She has requested that we consider a few changes—enter into further negotiations, so to speak—before she reaches a decision. Her situation is not as untenable as you fear, else we wouldn’t be here today.” “Damn you.” Carlyle bolted to his feet. “You’re asking her to sell herself to the devil incarnate and you tell me it’s not untenable.” He felt Annabelle’s hand on his arm and looked down. “Carlyle, please,” said Annabelle. “Please sit down and listen.” “There’s nothing to listen to.” Her face drained of all its color but Carlyle was too angry to care. “Father’s supposed friend and his rogue son can sit here smirking as long as they want. I’ll not be a party to this charade.” “If you’re most concerned about your own pride,” said Royce in a voice that carried the power of a hurricane in spite of its low tone, “please do leave. If you care anything about your sister, you’ll sit down and listen.” The voice was compelling, but it was the warning in those barren, gray eyes that stopped him. Instead of vaulting across the table and smashing the arrogant bastard’s face, which was what he wanted to do, Carlyle hesitated and instantly recognized the mistake. Without twitching a muscle, Royce Kincaid won and Carlyle didn’t like the humiliating sense of defeat washing over him any more than he liked the acceptance in Annie’s eyes. “Please continue, Mr. Jarvis,” instructed Royce with a slight inclination of his head toward the lawyer and ignoring Carlyle as if he was a roach already squashed beneath a boot heel. “Yes, well,” said Jarvis, glancing nervously at Peyton Kincaid. “Shall I begin with the original agreement between the parties so we’re certain everyone understands fully?” “An excellent thought,” said Peyton. He reached over and patted Annabelle’s hand, as if in encouragement. Carlyle stifled his groan. “Several years ago, Peyton Kincaid loaned Thomas Hallston the sum of twelve hundred dollars, said sum secured by a mortgage against a property in the city of Lexington which, I believe, is the house we’re sitting in now.” The lawyer’s eyebrow cocked, as if he didn’t know exactly what property was under discussion. Peyton inclined his head once again. The acting was superb; the script stank. Carlyle swallowed down his rage and watched Royce who was studying Annie. Annie kept her gaze fixed on the lawyer’s face. “Over the course of time, Thomas Hallston borrowed additional monies, the sum of which amounted to five hundred dollars at the time of his death. In November of last year, Mr. Hallston and Mr. Peyton Kincaid entered into an agreement concerning the method of repayment of the entire amount of loaned funds. The agreement is quite simple. In layman’s terms, Mr. Peyton Kincaid has agreed to accept as payment in full whatever sum can be realized by the sale of the Lexington property plus all if its furnishings, a sum estimated to be in the neighborhood of seven hundred and fifty dollars. A very generous concession by anyone’s standards. He did stipulate, and Thomas Hallston agreed, that the sale would take place no later than March 31, 1861, a date only two weeks away.” “Please, in layman’s terms,” said Carlyle, his voice dripping with sarcasm, “refresh our memory on the second option, the pound of flesh this paragon is willing to take in exchange for not turning my sister and brother onto the street.” Royce’s gaze shifted, first to Peyton, then to Carlyle. For an instant, laughter flashed in those cold, silver eyes and Carlyle suddenly understood what was happening. Either Annie didn’t realize she was some type of pawn between two strong men who hated one another, Kincaid père and fîls, or she was too numb to care. In either case, Carlyle knew the sickening truth. The war was already lost and to the victor went the spoils. “The er, second option is the crux of today’s meeting.” Jarvis avoided looking at any of them, directing his attention to the quill pen he held in his hand. “Mr. Peyton Kincaid is prepared to forgive the loan in its entirety, thereby passing said property to Carlyle Gault Hallston free and clear according to the terms of Thomas Hallston’s Last Will and Testament. He will also provide a permanent home for Annabelle Hallston and Bohannon Hallston at Riverbend, a university education for Bohannon Hallston and pass a farm property located in Augusta county to Bohannon Hallston in his own Last Will and Testament. For his own sons, Royce Magruder Kincaid will inherit the plantation known as Riverbend in its entirety, including chattel and contents. The younger son, Gordon Alistair Kincaid will inherit the contiguous property known as Old Riverbend. The only concession he asks is that Annabelle Hallston marries his son Royce Kincaid prior to March 31, 1861.” Jarvis finally lifted his gaze from his hands, although he seemed to be having difficulty meeting Annabelle’s. “Do you understand, Miss Hallston?” Annabelle’s chin nudged up. “Perfectly, Mr. Jarvis.” “Mr. Kincaid?” asked Jarvis, turning to Royce. Royce nodded. “Of course, neither of you is bound by the agreement between the senior Mr. Kincaid and Thomas Hallston. Either or both can decline the terms offered by Peyton Kincaid and the original contract remains intact.” “My sister has a choice between losing her home or selling herself for seventeen hundred dollars while her proffered husband marries a woman he doesn’t want to assure himself a valuable piece of property.” Carlyle didn’t care if his contempt showed and he didn’t care if he annihilated Annabelle’s pride. The obscenity of the situation stuck in his throat and he hated all of them, especially Royce Kincaid. Royce’s eyes narrowed and his jaw tightened, but when he spoke, his voice remained low. “What changes has Miss Hallston requested us to consider?” Carlyle realized the man could control armies using nothing but that low, compelling voice and those icy eyes. He glanced at Annabelle. If she felt any of the panic that was rising in his own chest, she didn’t show it. He wanted to hate her too. “Miss Hallston has made three simple requests. She asks that the ceremony be a civil ceremony held at Riverbend with only immediate family in attendance, that she be allowed to retain her maiden name and that the marriage remains private knowledge among those in attendance until such time that she, herself, decides to announce the marriage. Of course, the last request complicates matters as it requires agreement between not only the principles to the agreement, but also Mr. Gordon Kincaid and her own brothers. She is willing to accept their signature on the contract as proof of intent.” “Mr. Jarvis, I actually made four requests,” said Annabelle. “Surely, you weren’t serious, Miss Hallston,” said Jarvis. “Deadly serious,” said Annabelle. She looked over at Royce and Carlyle would swear he saw a smile hovering at her lips. “Yes, well ... in that case,” said Jarvis. “She asks that the marriage ceremony take place on April first instead of—” Royce’s laughter drowned out the rest of the lawyer’s sentence. Annabelle’s lips twitched but she managed to hold back her smile as she turned to Peyton Kincaid. Carlyle shifted his attention to the older man and what he saw was so unexpected, he slumped in his seat, totally defeated. Peyton’s eyes were a shade darker gray than his son’s, usually as emotionless, but right now, they sparkled. Peyton reached over the table and took Annabelle’s hand in his own. “I always told Thomas he didn’t know what a treasure he had in you.” He released her hand and leaned back in his seat. “I would much prefer the world know Miss Hallston is my daughter-in-law, but I’m willing to wait for the recognition of that honor if that’s what she wishes.” His patrician face lost every vestige of kindness as he leveled his gaze on his son. “Royce, I believe it’s up to you now. Do you make me a happy man and accept her terms or do you decline?” # Up to this point, between Carlyle’s impotent anger, Jarvis’ nervous twitches and Miss Hallston’s unexpected sense of humor, the proceedings had been more amusing than annoying. With his father’s question, Royce knew the duel had commenced. Peyton got in the first thrust. Feint and parry. “Your happiness doesn’t concern me in the least, Father. However, I can accept Miss Hallston’s stipulations if you can accept mine.” The old man was good; he didn’t even blink. Feint, parry. Thrust. “Please continue, Mr. Jarvis,” said Royce, taking the opportunity to glance at Annabelle. If her spine stiffened any more she’d be in danger of permanent paralysis but she didn’t blink either. He wanted to give her an encouraging smile, but didn’t. This was between the old man and himself. “Mr. Royce Kincaid presented me with his own list just this morning. I have it in front of me and I’ll read from it now,” said Jarvis. His hands shook as he pulled a pair of spectacles from his coat pocket. Everyone waited, watching his shaking hands maneuver the thin gold arms behind his ears. He picked up the single sheet of paper. “Number one, if the marriage takes place and Royce Kincaid should be killed in the coming war, the plantation known as Riverbend shall pass in its entirety to his wife, Annabelle Hallston Kincaid. He does make the request that all slaves be freed if the war has not already accomplished that purpose.” Royce heard her small gasp of surprise but his attention remained centered on Peyton. As yet, no reaction. “Number two, if said marriage takes place and Royce Kincaid survives the coming war, his wife is free to seek a divorce after a period of five years or one year after the end of hostilities, whichever comes first. He stipulates that he will not counter her proceedings and further stipulates that he will settle Riverbend and the sum of twenty thousand dollars on her at the time the divorce becomes final. Whether or not she seeks the divorce, Mr. Royce Kincaid intends to return to the West. In either case, married or divorced, she must agree there will be no further contact between them from that time forward.” The lawyer emitted a small sigh and looked at Peyton, as if in apology. “Lastly, Mr. Peyton Kincaid must agree that Annabelle Hallston Kincaid will be the sole beneficiary of Riverbend and so stipulate in his own Last Will and Testament as well as in trust.” The lawyer set down the paper and swallowed audibly. A taut silence stretched across the room, becoming almost a sound in itself. As Royce expected, his father was the one to finally break the silence. “Well done, Royce.” It was the same quiet tone that had once sent shivers down his spine. He wasn’t a boy any longer and perfectly willing to meet Peyton Kincaid man-to-man. This time, the field was even level. Royce remained silent, waiting for Peyton’s counter thrust. He didn’t have to wait long. “You didn’t address the issue of children, however.” “There’ll be no children,” Royce said with finality. Something compelled him to look at Annabelle. She sat with her eyes closed, her hands clutched together in front of her while she bit her lower lip. Oddly, he felt a sudden surge of sympathy for her, but this couldn’t be helped. He meant to draw blood on the old man and the old man was equally determined not to bleed. Peyton fingered the top of his walking stick, appropriately carved in the shape of a serpent. The ticking of the lyre clock on the mantle sounded strangely ominous in the quiet room. Finally, Peyton spoke. “I’ll go along with those stipulations, son, if I’m assured those non-existent children will have two parents.” By damn, the old man did bleed. Royce fought to hide his surprise at the ease of the capitulation. It certainly didn’t take much effort to provide assurances for the welfare of children he never intended to produce. “Mr. Jarvis,” said Royce, “please add that in whatever language you feel is necessary.” He directed his attention to Annabelle. “Miss Hallston?” She tried for a haughty look but the tears on her lashes spoiled the effort. Her brother offered her no assistance. He sat slumped in his chair, oblivious to her pain, looking as if he’d been sucker punched. “Your terms are more than generous,” she said haltingly. “But it doesn’t seem quite fair to Gordon.” Christ, he’d saddled himself with another innocent. If he had any sense, he’d knock the foolishness out of her right now. He just couldn’t bring himself to do it, not with that vulnerable expression on her face. “Annabelle, Gordon doesn’t covet Riverbend any more than I do.” He could see her pulse throbbing just above the cameo she wore at her throat. “What my father knows and your brother has failed to point out is that I’ve offered you nothing I’ll ever miss. I have my land out west and the infamous English inheritance which will remain safely in British sterling for the duration of this war. Twenty thousand dollars is a drop in the bucket.” “It’s more than I want or need.” She stared at him with those still, dark eyes. “Take it or leave it, Miss Hallston,” he said brusquely. He nudged his chin down, concealing his expression, and watched her as Jarvis scribbled the amendments to the agreement. She turned to Carlyle, obviously seeking something: support, advice, a shoulder to cry on. Carlyle avoided looking at her. And then she did it again. Drawing a deep breath, she pulled somewhere deep inside herself, somewhere safe and alone. Her gaze turned distant as she sat, perfectly still except for one thumb stroking the table top and it was as if that touch was the sole thing holding her here, in this world of madness. The quill pen scratched across the paper for several interminable minutes, making the only sound, as she sat, painfully alone in a room full of people. He didn’t know where it came from and although he tried, he couldn’t shove it away. It began with a tightening in his chest, passed through the vision of laughter and light in her eyes and ended with the cessation of the scratching quill pen, while she continued to sit in the silence, alone and lifeless except for one thumb stroking a wood grain table. She made him feel and she was going to make him hurt and he hated her almost as much as he suddenly wanted to protect her from the madness. For the world was an indifferent place at best, heartless and cruel at its worst and she was another innocent—this little woman with the golden brown hair and the golden brown eyes and the twenty-four carat smile. Once again, the silence stretched taut and painful across the room while his own heart thumped and pumped and hurt with a pain he didn’t want to remember. “Are you finished, Jarvis?” said Peyton, breaking the silence. The world spun crazily and he jerked his gaze to his father, totally disoriented. The last time he’d heard that voice, that ache in his father’s tone, was in another lifetime, the day Mother left. Royce shook his head, seeking to re-orient himself to the real world, the world of war and madness and hate. Jarvis shoved a piece of paper across the table. Peyton picked up the quill pen, dipped the point in the inkwell and signed his name to the bottom. Wordlessly, he pushed the paper and ink toward Royce. Royce might be a master at fooling others but never made the mistake of trying to fool himself. He knew if he thought, then he’d run—from Annabelle Hallston, from Peyton Kincaid, from himself. And if he did that, protected himself, then the younger brother he’d spent a lifetime protecting would be lost. Because Peyton Kincaid had no feelings, no blood ... and only one son. Royce signed his name, then set the quill on top of the paper and leaned back in his seat. Peyton slid the contract in front of Annabelle. “Annie-girl,” Peyton said, holding out the pen. It was the same gentle voice and for another moment, Royce forgot to breathe. She visibly trembled and brought herself back to the madness. It was her decision now. She absently took the quill from Peyton and once again turned to her brother. Carlyle lifted his gaze from his hands and stared at Royce. Help her, thought Royce as he met the hatred in those blue eyes. Carlyle turned his attention back to his hands without meeting his sister’s silent plea. Royce knew he could kill the man in a heartbeat and never regret it. Annabelle set the quill on the paper and looked uncertainly at the lawyer. She couldn’t do it. He was in the process of shifting his attention to Peyton, curious as to the old man’s reaction, not wanting to think about his own, when he heard the back door slam. “I’m back, Annie,” called the young voice. Everyone, even Carlyle, drew in a breath. Annabelle let hers out in a slow, deep-seated sigh. She picked up the quill and dipped it in the inkwell. “Here’s to living dangerously, Mr. Kincaid,” she said. Without another moment’s hesitation, she signed her name. Royce inclined his head in a silent salute, garnering himself another stunning smile. She passed the contract to her brother. Carlyle stared at the paper in front of him as the flush rose up his neck. About the same time the red flood reached his cheekbones, he stood up and glared at his sister. “I’ll keep the dirty little secret for your sake, Annabelle, but I’ll not sign the agreement and I’ll not attend the ceremony.” He stalked over to the door and then turned back to his white-faced sister. “I’ll write and I hope you’ll answer, but I’ll never set foot inside Riverbend and I won’t see you again until this farce of a marriage ends.” Royce jumped out of his chair, intent on breaking Carlyle’s arrogant, chiseled nose. But Carlyle moved fast, and Royce stopped himself. He could always break that nose later, when Annabelle wasn’t around to watch. Royce walked slowly back to the table. She lifted her gaze and he saw the tears filling her eyes but somehow, she managed to keep them from spilling over. “He’ll come around, Annie-girl,” said Peyton, reaching for her hand. “In the meantime, you’re a Kincaid now.” God help you, thought Royce. Bohannon Hallston appeared in the doorway, looking so much like a young version of his late father that Royce blinked. Until the boy smiled. When Bo smiled, his smile was as full of dreams and sunshine and promises as Annabelle’s and he was smiling now. “I saw it, Annie,” he said, bounding into the room and ignoring everyone but his sister. “It was snowing this morning, but I saw one anyway.” “What did you see, Bo?” asked Annabelle. “A cardinal in the old apple tree.” She leaned back in her seat, head bowed, eyes closed, as if in prayer. When she looked up, meeting her brother’s smile, tears shimmered like starlight on her dark lashes. “I knew it,” she whispered. “Spring always comes.” She was too young, still full of dreams and innocence, brimming with pride and grit and Royce knew, if he didn’t die in the coming war, he’d live to regret the coming marriage. Like It? Buy It : Amazon Books Barnes & Noble |