The Tender Vine (Diamond of the Rockies #3)(43)

She rested her hand on the iron fence. “It doesn’t matter what they think. You’ve seen them now.”

“And they’ve seen me.” He gripped two of the posts until his knuckles whitened. Then suddenly he let go. “Come on.” He started for the carriage.

She hurried behind. What was he thinking? Was there something they could do? His stride made her lift her skirts to keep up. “Where are we going?”

He reached the carriage and opened the door before the cabby could climb down from his box. Carina got in.

“Take us back to the hotel,” Quillan called up and pushed in behind her.

She could almost taste his disappointment. What had seemed irresolution, she now knew was self-protection. If she had not argued for the meeting, he might have decided against it. What had he gained? The knowledge that his only family didn’t want him, wouldn’t even believe him.

“They don’t matter.” She reached over and took his hand, felt him stiffen. She expected no answer and got none. It wasn’t true. They had mattered, more than she would have believed. He said nothing the entire drive back. When they reached the room, she expected the same, but though he didn’t speak, he took her hand and led her to the bed, closing the door behind. And that, though the sun had yet to set.





Quillan needed to feel alive. It was as though he’d been snuffed from existence. Seeing his mother’s grave dated before he was born, hearing, “There is no possible way she is your mother.” He knew it was lies, but it hit him anyway. He was nothing, no one.

He kissed Carina. He didn’t want her to talk. Her platitudes changed nothing. He wanted the primal affirmation he found only with her. But when he was through, he felt empty. Carina stroked his head, kissed his brow. She knew him. She knew what he was feeling. But he turned away and stared at the wall.

“Don’t go away.” Her voice was thick and husky.

“You think I’d leave?” He spoke to the wall.

“Here.” She tapped his temple.

She knew him all right. He was closing up. She wanted him to turn, to talk. But he felt like stone. When he didn’t move, she got up and dressed. He heard the door close behind her, and he was glad to be alone. It was familiar territory. His mind wandered over the episode. There was no question he’d found his mother’s people. Nor did he question their obvious disregard.

That was expected, and it no longer hurt. The hard part was learning they had put Rose to death without knowing, maybe without caring where or how she truly was, interred her memory rather than praying for her return. Why? He couldn’t fathom it. He felt an aching tenderness for his mother, wanting to shield her from them, take her where their judgment couldn’t hurt her.

He shook his head. That was foolish. She was beyond all human condemnation. Only God in His mercy had charge of her soul. Not the DeMornays. What had he hoped to accomplish? Certainly not some grand reunion, some open-arm welcome to their long lost progeny. If he was truly honest, he’d hoped to recognize them, to see something of himself, some extension beyond his own being.

Had he looked hard enough he might have found it. Had they conversed he might have seen mannerisms, intonation, expressions. Maybe he had. He closed his eyes and pictured William DeMornay, as stiff and unyielding and silently furious as Quillan felt right now. Strange to think the harder part of his nature came through his mother.

Well, it was done now. But their accusation that he wanted money rankled. As though money were paramount to family and belonging.

What had Carina said? Family was the most important thing. For that he’d pursued it, not for any financial gain. His anger surged. That, at least, he could feel.

Oh, God, help me make sense of it. But he couldn’t. He rolled from the bed and put his pants on, then sat down atop the covers. He’d hardly settled in when Carina came through the door with a tray. Her beauty hit him physically. Had she gone down to the dining room looking so ravishing?

Two plates of pork seasoned with apples, buttered potatoes, and winter squash steamed up as she set the tray on stands across his legs. He looked from it to her. “Did you go down for this?”

“I ordered it up and charged it to your bill.” She settled onto the bed beside him.

He’d never eaten in bed in his life. Unless you counted sitting on the edge of his cot in his tent with a heated can of beans or potatoes. But then the cot had been the only thing to sit on.

She took a napkin from the tray, unfolded it, and laid it against his chest, which he had yet to cover in a shirt. Carina didn’t seem to care. She tucked her hair back behind her ear where it had fallen forward as she leaned toward the tray. With one finger he flicked it loose again.

She turned, suffocated him with the warmth in her eyes. “Do you want to eat or not?”

Unfortunately he did. He blessed the food, saying the prayer Reverend Shepard had taught him as a boy. Then he took the fork and knife and made short work of the meal. He could see Carina’s amusement as she ate hers with more delicacy. When they finished he moved the tray to the floor and turned to her. “What made you do that?”

“At home, when I was sick or peevish, Mamma would bring me a tray in bed. I always felt like a princess.” She waved her hand in the way that fascinated him.

“So I’m the prince?” He pulled up the side of his mouth. “Far cry from a pirate, isn’t it?”