第 29 页

Unfortunately silent acceptance was not one of her strong suits. But this time would be different, she vowed. This time she'd wait patiently-and quietly-until he realized he loved her.

She only prayed that someday he'd feel comfortable enough with her to actually say the words.

"Dev?"

"Yes?"

"What were you wondering about?" He squeezed her playfully. "Some aspect of my stunning technique, perhaps?"

"No... It was nothing. Really."

He stopped smiling. "Prison?"

"I-I know it's none of my business, but I can't help wondering about it."

"I was in for murdering a woman." At Devon's sharp intake of breath, he grimaced. "A whore, actually."

"Why did you take the blame for something you didn't do?"

"I never said I didn't do it."

Her gaze was steady on his face. "I know you, Cornelius, whether you like it or not. And I know you aren't a murderer."

Her simple faith in him was stupefying. No one had ever believed in him. All his life he'd been a pariah, an outcast, shut away from society's light by something he hadn't done. And now after all these lonely years here was someone holding up a light, beckoning him in.

If he'd been standing his knees would have buckled. Sweet Christ, but the light looked good...

He was tired of living like an animal, all alone. Once, just once, he wanted to know what it felt like to be at peace. He wanted simply to be. With her he could be whatever he wanted to be.

It was a heady thought; one he'd never had before, and it opened all sorts of doors. Suddenly he felt like a kid again. Young and trusting and free.

Craziest of all, when he looked into the huge, trusting pools of her eyes, he felt as if he'd finally found a home. One that wouldn't vanish in a puff of smoke the moment he admitted he wanted it.

He released his breath slowly. For her he would take the risk he'd never been willing to take for himself.

For her he would venture from the darkness. "Cornelius? Are you all right?" "Are you sure you want to hear it all?" "Yes-if you want to tell me."

He tightened his hold on her body, taking strength from the soft, warm feel of her in his arms. A dozen long-suppressed images flashed through his mind. He winced at the memories.

"You don't have to tell me..."

"Yes, I do." He took a deep breath. "Her name was Mi-belle-the woman I was supposed to have murdered.

She worked for my mother." He remembered Mibelle's flashing black eyes and pouty, dark-red lips, and said, "I fell in love with her the first time I saw her. I was only seventeen, but that didn't matter; not to her anyway and certainly not to me.

"It... amused her to become my lover. I was so-" Humiliation wrenched in his gut. "So desperate for attention, I followed her around like an overeager puppy, doing whatever she asked of me.

"I even asked her to marry me and not just once. Every time I asked she laughed and said, 'Ask again next week.' And like a fool I did."

The ache in his voice brought tears to Devon's eyes. She wiped them away quickly, knowing he wouldn't want to see them. Not that he was looking at her. He wasn't. He was staring into space, and she could tell by the haunted, hollow look in his eyes that he was seeing the past.

He saw Mibelle as clear as day. She was standing in front of him, her garish red-velvet gown revealing all but the most expensive parts of her body. He was on his knees. He could hear himself begging, whining for some bit of her favor.

He clenched his fists. God, he'd been so stupid...

Slowly he came back to the present. And felt stupid all over again. Devon was lying in his arms, waiting silently for him to continue.

He owed her the truth. Squeezing his eyes shut against the images, he went on in an expressionless voice.

"One night Mother had a huge party in The Painted Lady, sort of a thank-you for all of her prestigious customers. Everyone who was anyone in New Orleans was there-the men, at least- and the whores were strutting their stuff. Mother had me all dressed up like a penguin, serving drinks. She knew it would kill me every time Mibelle 'worked,' and it did. Every time Mibelle took a man upstairs, my heart wrenched out of my body."

"Oh, my God..." Devon breathed.

"I'm not telling you this so you'll feel sorry for me."

"You felt sorry for me when I told you about my father," she said quietly.

"That's different."

"Only a man would think so." Devon lifted one hand, pale in the flickering light of the lantern, and pressed it to his cheek. "A broken heart is a broken heart."

Stone Man stared off in the darkness. How had she done it? Ripped through all the pretenses and gotten right to the soul of the issue so easily? Mibelle had broken his heart. He'd given her everything: his love, his adoration, his commitment; and she'd thrown them back in his face as if they'd meant nothing.

Yes, the faithless bitch had broken his heart. It was something he'd never admitted before, not even to himself.

But somehow, here, tonight, in Devon's arms, it was all right to admit it. He felt himself begin to relax.

"Tell me about the party."

Her words plunged him right back into the pain. He slammed his eyes shut, trying to block out the memories of that hideous night.

He wished to hell he could just stop talking, but it was too late for that. He sighed wearily then forced himself to continue. "As the night wore on, Mibelle got drunker and drunker. And strange as it sounds the more ridiculous she acted the more I loved her. I thought it proved how much she needed me.

"Anyway, near the end of the night one of New Orleans's most important politicians came down the stairs with Mother's newest girl. Jealousy made Mibelle crazy. She stumbled down the stairs, screaming that she was pregnant with Mr. Big's child.

"The room went stone silent, of course. It wasn't the sort of thing a whore said, especially not in front of the whole town. Everyone in the room had the sense to shut up, to pretend she hadn't said it."

Pain slashed across his face. "Everyone, that is, except a certain seventeen-year-old boy in a penguin suit. God," he said in an agonized voice, "I was so goddamn stupid."

"No, not stupid," Devon said quietly.

Stone Man didn't hear her. All he could hear was the sound of Mibelle's drunken laughter; it rang in his ears like an off-key chord, vibrating and pulsing.

"I ran to Mibelle and wrapped my arms around her. 'I love you,' I said. 'Marry me and let me be the child's father.' "

Devon waited silently until her curiosity got the better of her. "And?" she prodded.

His blood chilled. "And she laughed at me. Then she walked away."

He heard Devon's gasp, but he didn't respond. He couldn't. All he could think about was that horrible, hideous laughter. It had bounced off the silent walls like breaking glass. God, how he'd wanted to curl up and die.

It happened to someone else. Some other poor fool of a kid. He said the words over and over in his mind until he almost believed them. Then he forced himself to go on. He kept his voice calm and matter-of-fact. "Mibelle was found dead the next day. Murdered. Everyone in town knew who'd done it, but Mr. Big couldn't be expected to go to jail. Certainly not for killing a whore.

"But someone had to pay for the crime. After all, the local judge-who,~by the way, was at the party-had promised to keep the 'good' citizens of New Orleans safe. Oh, yes, someone had to pay, and for the right price, my mother was willing to give them a patsy. Her son."

His lips thinned into a grim line. "I was perfect: naive, expendable, and stupid. I'd told a room full of people that I loved her. And best of all, no one cared whether I lived or died.

"They had a fifteen-minute trial, and that was it." He gave a harsh, self-deprecating laugh.

"Fortunately the cost of killing a whore was relatively cheap. Only five years of my life. When they let me out of that stinking, rotten hole, I ran as far from 'civilization' as I could. I'll never go back." He shuddered. "Never."

In his voice Devon heard the echo of a young man whose ?nly crime had been to love. She felt a sudden, almost blinding anger at all of them: the mother who'd sold her son's freedom, the woman who'd taken his innocent love and stomped it beneath her heel, the crooked court. They'd taken so much from him-his pride, his ability to trust, his willingness to love.

It all fit into place now. The anger he wore like a suit of armor; the drifting, solitary life-style he espoused; the disgust he felt for his fellow man. They were all walls that protected his heart from further injury. The falsely convicted boy had grown into a man who refused to let himself be hurt again. A man who refused to care whether he belonged.

No wonder he refused to leave the refuge of the wilderness. Everyone he'd ever loved had betrayed him.

She sighed. There was nothing she could say that would ease his pain. All she could do was love him as deeply and as well as he'd allow. Maybe someday, if she loved him long enough, he'd realize that his exile was over. Maybe he'd even realize that she wasn't like Mibelle and that his love was safe with her.

With that thought she curled up against his chest and closed her eyes. She was asleep in seconds.

Memory's icy grip eased slowly. He'd made it, he realized suddenly. He'd made it through the darkness and into the light. His eyes slid shut in a moment of silent thanks. He felt better than he had in years: freer, more relaxed.

And all because of Devon.

The woman he loved.

He could no longer deny his own feelings. He needed her: her wit, her laughter, her strength. More even than that, he needed her simple faith.

She made him believe in himself. Because she saw in him more than a reclusive, angry murderer, he became more.

For the first time in his life he wanted something, and he wanted it with a desperation that twisted his gut.

He wanted the welcome her eyes promised. He wanted the home her arms offered.

No wonder his stomach was in knots. He wanted something that didn't exist. The home he'd felt in her arms was a false home. Like one of those storefronts on Circle City's main street. It was a home that existed until spring, and then it was gone.

How many times had she promised to leave Dawson City when the river thawed? It wasn't an idle threat either. It was a plan of action. And, God knew, Devon never turned her back on a plan. As soon as she had enough money for boat fare she'd leave. She couldn't wait to leave the uncivilized Yukon backwater behind her-and the filthy Neanderthal whom she'd slept with because it was "sensible."

Oh, she cared for him. He knew that. But it wasn't enough; not for either of them. They were both stubborn, pigheaded people, and they both knew what they wanted out of life. He wanted to tramp around in the wilderness taking pictures for the rest of his days.

Not so Devon. She might say she'd never marry, but it was what she wanted. It was what every woman wanted: a nice house in town, a husband with a steady job, children, and a dog.

He didn't want any of those things, and he couldn't ask her to adopt his isolated life-style. He loved her too much to turn her into a recluse.

He couldn't leave, and she wouldn't stay. So they'd spend the winter together, laughing, sharing, loving, caring. Pretending spring wasn't coming.

But how could he love her all winter and then return to his old, lonely, meaningless life? For one frozen, magical heartbeat, he would have belonged- and that brief moment would make the return to isolation almost unbearable.

Maybe it would help if he never actually said "Hove you." Maybe if he didn't say the frightening, irreversible words aloud, he could pretend he didn't love her. Then he'd make it through the winter with his soul intact.

Silence wasn't much of a shield. But it was all he had.

Besides, he rationalized, it was better for her if he kept silent. She deserved more out of life than a broken-down old man who was terrified of love. Yes, he'd keep his love a secret. It was better that way. Better for both of them.

Devon snuggled closer against the warmth of Stone Man's body. It didn't help. She rolled onto her back, clutching the blanket to her breasts. Her teeth started chattering. Goodness, she thought, it must be fifty below.

Oh, why did the fire always have to die out in the middle of the night just when it was needed most?

Bemoaning the fact wouldn't change it. Unfortunately. She was simply putting off the inevitable.

In one determined movement she flung back the fur bedspread and jumped out of bed. Her bare feet hit the icy floorboards with a jolt of pain. Wincing, she raced to the stove. With shaking fingers she crammed the frosted logs into the little sheet-metal opening and dropped a lighted match onto the pile. The flames started slowly, inching their way along the icy wood. Devon rubbed her hands together. It wouldn't be long now...

She sat down at the table, wincing the moment her bottom hit the hard wood. Lordy, she hurt.

Moving slowly to alleviate the pain, she scooted her chair closer to the fire. As soon as she was warm, she'd crawl back into bed. It didn't hurt so bad when she was lying down.

Behind her the bed creaked. Then a foot hit the floor.

"You don't have to get up," she whispered. "I already started the fire."

She felt him behind her. The warmth of his body encircled her, chasing off a bit of the chill that clutched her bones.

Then his hands were on her shoulders. She lolled her head back, resting it against his body.

His fingers moved to the buttons at her throat. They fell open one by one. A draft of frigid air slipped through the opening, breezing across her nipples.

He slid his hands underneath the flannel, splaying his fingers across her collarbone. Each digit was like a column of fire on the icy coldness of her bare skin. The very tip of one nail brushed her hardened nipple. Her breasts tingled in anticipation of his touch. She tensed, waiting.