Scandal in Spring (Wallflowers #4)(84)

“I keep thinking I should know if he were dead,” she told Lillian as she sat on the floor next to the parlor hearth. An old shawl was wrapped around her, comforting in its time-worn softness. Despite the heat of the fire, the layers of her clothing, the mug of brandied tea in her hands, Daisy couldn’t seem to get warm. “I should feel it. But I can’t feel anything, it’s as if I’ve been frozen alive. I want to hide somewhere. I don’t want to bear this. I don’t want to strong.”

“You don’t have to be,” Lillian said quietly.

“Yes I do. Because the only other choice is to let myself break into a million pieces.”

“I’ll hold you together. Every single piece.”

A paper-thin smile touched Daisy’s lips as she stared into her sister’s concerned face. “Lillian,” she whispered. “What would I do without you?”

“You’ll never have to find out.”

It was only the prodding of her mother and sister that induced Daisy to take a few bites of supper. She drank a full glass of wine, hoping it would distract her from the endless circling of her mind.

“Westcliff and Father should be back soon,” Lillian said tensely. “They’ve had no rest and likely nothing to eat.”

“Let’s go to the parlor,” Mercedes suggested. “We can distract ourselves with cards, or perhaps you might read aloud from one of Daisy’s favorite books.”

Daisy gave her an apologetic glance. “I’m sorry, I can’t. If you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to be alone upstairs.”

After she had washed and changed into her nightclothes, Daisy glanced at the bed. Even though she was tipsy and weary, her mind rejected the notion of sleep.

The house was quiet as she went to the Marsden parlor, her bare feet touching shadows that crossed the carpeted floor like dark vines. A single lamp sent a yellow glow through the parlor, light catching in faceted crystals that hung from the shade and sending scattered dots of white over the flower-papered walls. A pile of printed flotsam and jetsam had been left by the settee: periodicals, novels, a thin volume of humorous poetry she had read aloud to Matthew, watching for the elusive smiles on his face.

How was it that everything had changed so quickly? How could life so cavalierly pick someone up and set them on a new and violently unwanted path?

Daisy sat on the carpet beside the pile and began to sort through it slowly…one pile to be brought to the library, another to be taken to the villagers on visiting day. But perhaps it wasn’t wise to attempt this after so much wine. Instead of forming two neat piles, the reading materials ended up scattered around her like so many abandoned dreams.

Crossing her legs, Daisy leaned against the side of the settee and rested her head on the upholstered edge. Her fingers encountered the cloth covering on one of the books. She glanced at it with half-closed eyes. A book had always been a door to another world…a world much more interesting and fantastical than reality. But she had finally discovered that life could be even more wonderful than a fantasy.

And that love could fill the real world with magic.

Matthew was everything she had ever wanted. And she’d had so little time with him.

The mantel clock rationed quiet little ticks with miserly slowness. As Daisy leaned against the settee half-drowsing, she heard the door creak. Her sluggish gaze followed the sound.

A man had entered the room.

He paused just inside the doorway, contemplating the sight of her on the floor with all the discarded books around her.

Daisy’s eyes lifted jerkily to his face. She froze with longing and fear and terrible yearning.

It was Matthew, dressed in rough, unfamiliar clothing, his vital presence seeming to fill the room.

Afraid the vision would disappear, Daisy was as still as death. Her eyes stung and watered but she kept them open, willing him to stay.

He approached her with great care. Sinking to his haunches, he contemplated her with immeasurable tenderness and concern. One of his big hands moved, shoving aside some of the books until the space between their bodies was clear. “It’s me, love,” he said softly. “Everything’s all right.”

Daisy managed to whisper through dry lips. “If you’re a ghost…I hope you haunt me forever.”

Matthew sat on the floor and reached for her cold hands. “Would a ghost use the door?” he asked gently, bringing her fingers to his scratched, battered face.

The touch of his skin against her palms sent a dance of painful awareness through her. With relief Daisy finally felt the numbness thaw, her emotions unlocking, and she tried to cover her eyes. Her chest seemed to break open with sobs, the sounds raw and unrestrained.

Matthew took her hand away and pulled her firmly against him, murmuring quietly. As Daisy continued to cry he held her more tightly, seeming to understand that she needed the hard, almost hurtful pressure of his body.

“Please be real,” she gasped. “Please don’t be a dream.”

“I’m real,” Matthew said huskily. “Don’t cry so hard, there’s no—oh, Daisy, love—” He gripped her head in his hands and pressed comforting words against her lips while she struggled to get even closer to him. He eased her to the floor, using the reassuring weight of his body to subdue her.

His hands clasped with hers, fingers interlaced. Panting, Daisy turned her head to stare at his exposed wrist, where the flesh was red and welted. “Your hands were tied,” she said in a rough voice that didn’t sound at all like hers. “How did you free them?”