Winter's Edge Read online

  Molly sat back, an equally chilly smile on her own face. This, at least, was familiar. She'd fought with this man before. The familiarity, unfortunately, was far from comforting.

  "Okay," she said. "Question number one. Why do you hate me?"

  "I don't hate you, Molly," he said in a cold, weary voice. "I don't give a damn about you one way or another."

  "Why not? I'm your wife."

  "What makes you think marriage makes people get along? We used to be better friends before we made the stupid mistake of getting married."

  "Why did we get married?"

  "Youthful passion," he snapped.

  "I thought you were going to answer my questions."

  "Those I feel like answering. I'm not in the mood to do a postmortem on our tangled relationship."

  She stared at him, frustrated. Memory might fail her, but instinct told her she wouldn't get any farther with that line of questioning.

  "What is it you think I've done? What is it the police think I've done? Lieutenant Ryker said he didn't think I could have killed that man. Do they think I was an accessory? If so, does someone want to kill me? Do they think I stole that money…?"

  "You had no need to steal any money," Patrick said. "You have plenty of your own."

  That startled her more than anything. "You mean I'm rich?" she gasped, wondering why that notion felt so alien to her.

  "Very. Why do you think I married you?"

  It was a stunning blow, the effect of which she tried to hide. "How noble of you," she said lightly. "What was I doing with this strange man in the first place? Why had I run away from you?"

  "I guess love's young dream had faded," he said with something close to a snarl. "You always liked older men—I presume you just decided a ten-year age difference wasn't enough. You wanted someone more mature."

  "That shouldn't have been hard to find," she snapped.

  She had managed to startle him. There was a light in his eyes that was almost appreciative. "Be that as it may, our marriage was effectively over. You decided to take off, and it didn't really concern me why or where you were going. I was too busy dealing with the mess you left behind."

  "What mess was that?"

  "I'm getting a little weary of this, Molly. Besides, you may be independently wealthy, but I have work to do."

  "You don't have money?"

  "This is an expensive place to maintain. I'm always in debt."

  "And who inherits my money if I die?" The initials on the handkerchief were his. Why was it one of the few things in her possession? It hardly seemed as if it were a love token, given their acrimonious relationship.

  His smile was cool and deceptively sweet "Why, I do, Molly. Why do you ask?"

  He knew perfectly well why she was asking, and the notion amused him. Had he tried to kill her? Had he driven her away from this place that, despite the strangeness and the hostility, still felt like home, and then followed her, murdering her lover and trying to kill her as well? He had the clear motive.

  "Where were you the night of my accident?"

  He laughed then, and the sound wasn't reassuring. "I have an alibi, Molly. Ironclad. I didn't try to kill you, and the police believe me. You should as well."

  "Why should I?"

  "Because if I tried to kill you, I wouldn't make a mistake. You'd be dead. And I'd be a very wealthy man."

  "Then why don't you? It seems the logical thing to do, and you appear to be a very logical man."

  "Don't tempt me," he said, but his voice was like silk, and he reached out and slid his hand along the side of her neck, up under her hair. "I could break your neck, and make it look like a fall. The stairs are winding, the floor is slate, and you're recovering from a concussion. Not to mention that convenient amnesia. It wouldn't take much to arrange."

  She swallowed. His skin was warm, rough and oddly erotic against her neck. "Wouldn't the police get suspicious?"

  "I imagine I could handle them," he said in a dreamy voice. "No one likes you very much, you know."

  "Why not?" She swallowed, and his thumb stroked the front of her throat, gently, with only the faintest hint of pressure.

  "They don't like the way you treat me."

  "And what about the way you treat me?" she countered, fighting the need to bat his hand away. Fighting the need to sway closer to him.

  "They don't care, Molly."

  She was too close to him. She looked at him then, directly into his dark, stormy blue eyes, and a little frisson of fear danced down her spine. Followed by something else.

  He could kill. She believed that of him. He could have killed the man she'd supposedly run away with, out of jealousy or something else. He could have tried to kill her, but something stopped him from making the blow fatal. Or maybe he'd run them off the road, she'd been knocked unconscious by the accident, and he'd quickly and efficiently killed his rival.

  But why hadn't he finished her? Did he still want her? Or just her money?

  He was stroking her, slowly, with erotic intent. His head dipped toward hers, blotting out the light. He was going to kiss her, she knew it. He had every right to kiss her—he was her husband.

  So why did it feel as if it were going to be her first kiss?

  She held herself very still, waiting for the touch of his mouth against hers, letting her eyes drift shut, aware of the danger, the draw of the man, and no longer caring if she was playing with fire.

  And then he pulled back, abruptly. "That's enough questions for now, Molly," he said in a bored drawl. "This marital togetherness wears thin pretty damned fast. Go away."

  She opened her eyes and stared at him in confusion. He wanted her. She knew that, with a sudden sureness that left her curiously triumphant. He wanted her, but he was half afraid of her.

  It was a small consolation. He scared the hell out of her. She didn't bother arguing with him. She simply rose, taking her mug of undrinkable black sludge. "Pleasant dreams," she said sweetly.

  His response was a growled obscenity. The dog lifted his head, looking at the two of them questioningly before lumbering to his feet, preparing to follow her.

  "Beastie!" Patrick spoke sharply, and with an air of reluctance the dog returned to his side. Molly Went slowly up the stairs, feeling oddly, doubly forsaken.

  She lay awake for hours, listening to the rain beat down on the slate roof. The queen-size bed with its voluptuous satin sheets was too soft, and before an hour of tossing and turning had passed her back began to ache. The clinging nightgown, so revealing and provocative for a nonexistent lover, was obviously made to be discarded early in the night. It made her itch. The room was stuffy and suffocating, and the heavy formal drapes kept out any trace of moonlight. She lay there and hated that room, hated it with a passion. If she was going to be a prisoner there she would have to change it, despite her husband's likely objections. Surely he couldn't approve of the lavish style of it. How had he managed to put up with it when he used to visit his wife?

  Or had she gone to his room?

  She stiffened uncontrollably. Slow, measured footsteps were mounting the stairs, and she could hear the clicking of the dog's nails as he followed his master up to bed. She lay there, tense and unmoving, scarcely breathing, as she waited for him.

  She hadn't imagined the look in his eyes earlier, the slow, sensual heat that he'd deliberately banked. He wanted her. And he seemed to be a man who ,took what he wanted.

  He stopped in the hall, and she could almost hear his breathing. After a moment he went into his own room and closed the door.

  She felt a stinging dampness in her eyes, and she wiped it away angrily. Molly Winters, who never cried, had wept three times in one day. She wasn't going to keep giving in to some maudlin weakness, she told herself firmly. She was glad he hadn't come to her room, that cool, angry stranger, she was absolutely delighted. As a matter of fact, the nurse had been right.

  She hated Patrick Winters with his cold heart and his cold blue eyes, hated him more than sh
e had hated any person in her entire life. She knew that hurt and hatred—it was a familiar companion in the old stone house.

  Patrick wasn't quite sure how he was going to stand this. He told himself there was no way he could hear her breathing through the thick old walls, no way he could smell the faint trace of perfume that clung to her hair.

  But he could. The scent, the sound, the feel of her followed him into his bedroom, teased him unmercifully. The last few weeks had been the first peace he'd known in more than a year. He hadn't wanted her back, and he didn't want her sleeping two doors away from him, totally immune to him.

  He wanted to be immune to her. Oblivious. To be able to ignore her, and the way she crawled beneath his skin, danced in his blood. His feelings for her should have been over long ago. They were never very sensible—she was a decade younger than he was, a sixteen-year-old child when he'd first seen her, a twenty-three-year-old child when he'd made the very dire mistake of marrying her.

  And he couldn't blame anyone but himself. Sure, his damned autocratic father had set things in motion, determined to get his way, even beyond the grave. But Patrick had never danced to his tune. And marrying Jared Winters's chosen one should have been the last thing he'd do.

  But the problem was damnably simple. His father had always known him far too well, for all they'd fought like cats and dogs. He'd chosen Molly for him, for the simple reason that he knew Patrick wanted her. Wanted her desperately.

  Well, he'd gotten her. And desperation as well. He'd made his bed, and he'd lie in it alone. Until Molly was out of his house, out of his life, for good.

  And then, maybe he'd be able to get her out of his soul as well.

  Chapter Four

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  The room was dark and still when she awoke the next morning, alone in the wide, uncomfortable bed. She was sweating all over, and her hands were trembling. Shaking herself slightly, she rolled out of bed. A nightmare, she told herself, as she pushed open the heavy drapes and stared out into the early Pennsylvania morning. The sky was a sullen blue, not unlike Patrick's eyes, and she felt as weighted down as the weather. She pushed open the window, hoping for a soft breeze, but she was rewarded with an icy blast of cold. She slammed it shut quickly.

  The tiny gilt clock beside the massive bed said six-thirty, and she wondered whether she usually rose at such an early hour. She was in no mood to tempt fate with another nightmare—besides, she had too much she needed to learn. Maybe today was the day she'd begin to find out the answers to some of the thousands of questions plaguing her.

  She went through the connecting door to the tiny bathroom and scrubbed at her face fiercely with hot water and the designer soap in the gold soap dish. Looking into the mirror, she wondered once again at the oddness of her surroundings: the cold, modern luxury everywhere in her rooms. A luxury that was both unnatural and stifling. But the reflection of that long oval face with the slanted green-blue eyes was that of a stranger, and could give her no answers.

  She dressed swiftly in the same clothes she'd worn the night before—from what she'd seen of the overstuffed contents of the closet and dresser there was nothing else even remotely suitable for an early spring day on a farm. Though Molly had the feeling this was no ordinary farm.

  The old kitchen was even more attractive in daylight. An old-fashioned brick hearth and oven took up one wall, and a small fire was crackling cheerfully, bringing a warmth to the room that was spiritual as well as physical. The gleaming wooden counter, the copper pots hanging from the whitewashed walls, the massive old cookstove and the harvest table created a feeling of simple needs and pleasures, and she found herself slightly, dangerously at peace for the first time since she'd arrived in Bucks County. For the first time since she'd woken up in that hospital room, just one short day ago.

  "My goodness, Mrs. Winters, what in the world are you doing up so early?" an amazed voice demanded from the pantry door. "I was planning on bringing you your breakfast in bed, same as I always did." A starched, comfortable figure stood in the doorway, another unnerving sign of normalcy.

  "Good morning," Molly greeted her hesitantly, taking in the woman's graying hair, curious black eyes and general air of motherliness. "I decided it was too nice a day to stay in bed."

  The woman turned to peer out the window, then looked back at Molly in surprise. "Well, it's not exactly the day I'd pick for a picnic, but it's well enough, I suppose, especially after last night. And of course, you so long in the hospital, poor girl. Now you go and sit yourself down in the dining room and I'll set you a place in two shakes."

  "If you don't mind I'd rather eat in here."

  She looked even more startled. "Well, certainly, if that's what you want. I will admit it's warmer and cozier in here. Pat always eats his breakfast in here with me, and that's a fact. Says it warms him up." She kept a steady flow of chatter while she deftly set a place at the table, poured her a cup of coffee with just the right amount of cream and sugar, and started some toast. "What'll you have for breakfast, Mrs. Winters? The usual?"

  Molly could feel an odd blush of color rise to her cheeks. "I'm afraid I…that is…"

  "Oh, heavens, what a fool I am, jabbering away at you. Pat explained your little problem, but I forgot all about it. You probably don't even know who I am, do you? I'm Fran Morse, the housekeeper, and you usually have two slices of toast and orange juice. But maybe I could tempt you with something a bit more substantial this morning?"

  Molly sipped at the wonderful coffee. "Well, my…Patrick made dinner last night," she said carefully, oddly unwilling to call Patrick her husband.

  "Then you must be starving," the woman said with a friendly smile. "That man can't cook to save his life."

  "I am a bit hungry," she admitted. "I'd love some eggs and bacon if it's not too much trouble. And some of your poppy seed muffins."

  The woman beamed fondly. "Well, it's a treat to see you've got some appetite. These last few months you were eating like a bird. And you remembered my muffins, bless your heart!" She deposited some in front of Molly, kindly ignoring her sudden start.

  She'd have to get used to remembering, Molly told herself shakily. Things are bound to come back like that, a bit at a time. She took a bite out of the muffin, and the familiar-unfamiliar taste warmed her tongue. Slowly she began to relax. For the first time since she arrived she felt comfortable and comparatively happy. Here was one person who didn't seem to blame her for a thousand anonymous crimes. Molly watched Mrs. Morse bustle around the kitchen with a sense of quiet gratitude, and she wished that feeling could last forever.

  By the time she devoured her breakfast and had seconds of muffins and coffee she was ready to face the day. "Would you like some help washing up?" she offered, bringing her dishes over to the sink.

  Mrs. Morse stared at her strangely. "Well, I never thought to hear such words from your mouth again," she said frankly. "But there, I always said you weren't so bad underneath. No, dearie, I can manage these myself. After all, it's what I'm paid for."

  Molly nodded, trying to ignore those words that kept repeating themselves, around and around in her brain. I always said you weren't so bad underneath. Who did she say it to?

  There wasn't much she could say in response. She plastered a cool smile on her face. "Well, if you need any help with lunch or anything just call me."

  It was just past seven o'clock when she wandered out of the kitchen, more troubled than she cared to admit. She didn't know where to start. Her life was an Agatha Christie novel—full of clues and question marks, suspects and red herrings, and the thought of sorting them out was daunting. It didn't sound as if there was anyone she could turn to for help or answers—from the impression she'd gotten from Patrick and company she had no friends in the area, and it was unlikely that anyone would want to have anything to do with her.

  She ended up back in the opulent bedroom, staring at the walls. Patrick had gotten up and left early, Willy apparently didn't make an appearance until past noon i
f he could help it, and Molly was doomed to her own frustrating company.

  She went to the closet, looking through her wardrobe. Within minutes her disgust was even stronger. Those expensive clothes were absolutely lovely, but they were as ill-suited for her as gold lamé on a child. She went out on the landing and called to Mrs. Morse.

  "Have we got an old trunk anywhere?"

  "What in the world are you doing, Mrs. Winters?" She appeared at the bottom of the stairs, a dust rag in one capable hand.

  "Cleaning house, just like you," she replied smartly. "Have we got a trunk anywhere?"

  "Should be one in the back of your closet," Mrs. Morse answered, curiosity alight in her face. "Do you need any help?"

  "I can handle it," she said, heading back in to discover an old-fashioned steamer trunk, large enough to hold even Molly Winters's extensive wardrobe. Working at a leisurely pace, she loaded it with almost every conceivable piece of elegant clothing. Patrick must have been using understatement when he said she loved to spend money. It was a good thing she apparently had plenty of it. The stuff in the closets and drawers must have cost a fortune. Sudden guilt swamped her. Surely there was some deserving charity in town that would love something a bit better than rags.

  She kept very little: a number of subdued cotton sweaters, a blessed second pair of worn jeans. Out went the gold-threaded caftan, the black satin sheath with the neckline down to there, the turquoise silk lounging pajamas. Whether she liked it or not, she was really a T-shirt and jeans type, and dressing up in sophisticated clothes would only make her look more ridiculous. And make the situation that much worse.

  What situation? she asked herself suddenly. There was no answer. Only the instinctive knowledge that she wanted to be beautiful. Was she fool enough to care what her bad-tempered husband thought? If she harbored any warm emotions in that direction she would be wise to forget them quickly. Her life was a tangled mess, and she had absolutely no idea how things had gotten that way. She sighed as she shut the trunk on the expensive, unsuitable clothes.