The Tender Vine (Diamond of the Rockies #3)(73)

Carina could just picture it, Nicolo panting by the side of the bed as Sam used to, tail wagging. Sam. Carina understood why Quillan left him with Alan Tavish, but she missed the dog’s warm eyes and wet nose. She carried the stems to the compost bowl but scraped the seeds into a bowl. They would be saved and planted in the garden.

Now one voice rose up in the other room. Angelo’s, of course. The oldest son pushing his weight. He was always the loudest and most outspoken. What Ti’Giuseppe called a blusterer. His words sounded clearly through the open kitchen door. “How do you intend to support my sister?”

Quillan’s answer was too soft to hear.

“And you’ll live off the fat of our land until then?”

All hands in the kitchen stopped. Carina held the knife suspended over the cutting board over the compost bowl. Some of the women looked toward the door, others at her. Carina could discern Quillan’s voice, but not his words.

Mamma held out a papery bulb. “Crush the garlic, Carina.”

But Carina set down her utensils and pulled off her apron. Tia Marta put a hand to her shoulder, but Carina hurried through the door.

Angelo’s tone was more insulting than angry. “Can you read? Can you write? Do you—” He broke off when Carina came into the room, fists to her hips.

“Of course he reads! And writes poetry. And memorizes books. You can’t claim as much!”

Angelo reddened. He wasn’t stupid by any account, but neither was he a stellar student. Her brothers looked at Quillan, seemed to reappraise him, then dismissed that for their original assessment. Angelo sneered, “What has he to show for it?”

Quillan looked wary, tense. She didn’t think the others could tell, but in his charcoal-rimmed gray eyes she saw something of Wolf. Carina waited for him to tell them about his mine, his fortune. Surely he’d made something from the sale? If not, he must have done well enough freighting? But Quillan said nothing, only stood with one hand holding his lapel.

Papa leaned one elbow on the mantel, elegant in silk-embroidered vest and white sleeves, exactly as Carina had remembered him—except for his expression. He said softly, “Where is your family? Who are they?”

Carina started to answer, but Papa sent her a scathing glare. “Let him answer for himself.”

She clutched her hands together. What would Quillan say? Surely not the truth.

“My parents are dead.”

Papa waved his hand. “Grandparents, uncles, cousins?”

Quillan shook his head a little stiffly.

Papa frowned. “You have no relatives?”

Carina’s breath caught. She pictured William DeMornay in his fine mansion, his slender fingers folded in his lap, his grim expression. “What are you after . . . money?”

Quillan said, “No.”

Carina’s breath returned. The DeMornays had denied him. Even though the locket proved otherwise—the diary, as well—in their minds, at least William’s, Quillan did not exist.

“So you have nothing.” Papa extended his fingers disdainfully.

For the first time Carina saw his arrogance, and Quillan saw it, too. She watched his fire ignite.

Papa’s chin raised. “And you think you should live here with my daughter, with my blessing, when you bring nothing.”

Quillan’s jaw tightened; the tendons stood out under his flesh. “I bring myself. Judge me on that.”

Papa’s eyes locked with Quillan’s. “Then you have already failed. You stole my daughter, disgraced her and me.”

Quillan said, “I have never disgraced Carina.”

Papa’s fist came down on the mantel. Carina jumped. Never had Papa lost his temper publicly!

“You contradict me? In front of my family?” He swung his arm to include all his sons.

Quillan said, “I meant no disrespect.”

The vein in Papa’s temple pulsed, but he contained his anger. “You found my daughter vulnerable and forced your attentions—”

“It wasn’t like that, Papa!” Carina’s hands clenched at her sides. “He saved my life!” Now all eyes were on her. “In my letter I told you Crystal was lovely, but it wasn’t. It was hard and terrible. I went to Quillan for help.”

Papa’s eyes narrowed. “And he used that to marry you?”

Carina spread her hands. “It was all he could do to stop a man who was truly worthy of your disdain. You should thank him, Papa, for saving me from shame. I was the foolish one. Not Quillan.”

Papa’s mouth pulled down. “You defend him, but that does not excuse—”

Quillan stepped forward. “I ask your pardon for marrying without your blessing. If circumstances had permitted, I would have asked it.”

Papa looked him up and down without speaking. Would he accept Quillan’s apology? Fervently she hoped so. He said, “I would have refused.”

Quillan’s chin dropped just enough that Carina felt the blow.

“You’re a stranger to our ways, our religion, our life. I would not have wished exile for my daughter.”

“I can learn.” Quillan drew himself up.

“He can, Papa. You should see how quickly he learns the language.” Carina leaned forward earnestly.

“Then we’ll have to watch what we say.” Papa’s words were cruel, brutal in impact. He would not accept Quillan, not give him a chance.