Storm at Marshbay Read Online Free PDF Page B

love his wife? And a woman wants her husband to love her too— yes?”
    “Yes.” I was surprised by his frankness. “But I— I know nothing of love.” I couldn’t go on, and the awkwardness of our conversation made me blush.
    “Love is inside us all,” he said.  “It’s a natural thing; it isn’t something you learn. You can’t make it happen. And you can’t make someone love you.” His face changed then and his voice contained a hint of bitterness.
    “You must have loved your wife.” I hoped mentioning her would not inflame his bitterness into full-blown anger, but I desperately needed to know more about her.
    “Let me tell you about my wife.” He gazed at me with shuttered eyes, closing me out. “She was a beautiful woman. Intelligent. From a wealthy old Spanish family, the daughter of one of my father’s oldest friends. Marguerite and I knew each other for years. She treasured her independence above anything and she often let me know when I overstepped my bounds in that part of her life. I will freely admit to you that it was not the life I wanted.”
    For the first time, I saw past his confidence and I felt some sympathy for him.
    “I don’t intend to let that happen again,” he said, staring straight into my eyes.
    I was stunned speechless by the change in him. So quick, so lethal.
    “What do you mean?”
    “Don’t worry. You won’t be a prisoner here. You will have anything you want. You may go anywhere you wish. But I expect to know where you go, what your activities are and who your friends are.”
    “Marguerite never wanted children.  But I do want a family some day. That’s something you need to consider. But I am willing to wait until you feel comfortable enough to come to me of your own freewill.”
    “And what if I don’t? What if I never come to you, as you say, of my own freewill?”
    “You will,” he said.
    I laughed. I couldn’t help it. I knew he was an arrogant, supremely self-assured man. He reveled in it.
    “You are confident, I’ll give you that,” I said.
    “Does that offend you?” he asked, smiling at me.
    “No,” I said.  “Oddly, it doesn’t.”
    He laughed and I knew he was pleased.
    “You will no doubt hear rumors about me,” he went on. “And about Marguerite and how she died.”
    “How she died?”
    “It was an accident with one of the horses. But the authorities weren’t so sure. They questioned me for months. There are some people who believe to this day that I murdered my wife because she was having an affair.” 
    “Oh.” I didn’t know what to say.
    “I believe there are people in this very house who still believe I was responsible for my wife’s death. They might even tell you that sooner or later.”
    He leaned his elbow on the table, his thumb under his chin, forefinger across his lips. His look challenged me.
    “And were you?” I whispered, unable to look away from his defiant gaze.
    “No,” he said. “But our relationship was not a good one. It was tumultuous to say the least. I accept my part in that. I often drank too much. We argued— loudly sometimes. I would ride across the marsh in the middle of the night, venting my frustration. We finally reached a point where we barely spoke. She had her life and I had mine.”
    I had never heard about his wife, though I had heard about his wild rides across the marsh. And about his drinking.
    “I no longer drink,” he said. “Except an occasional glass of wine.”
    “Do you still ride through the marsh at night?”
    “Sometimes.” His smile was wistful.
    “Perhaps I could ride with you,” I ventured.
    “The marsh is a dangerous place at night.”
    “I love the marsh at night. I love the sound of the animals and birds. I love the exotic smells and the quietness.” Despite my reply I wasn’t fooled by his remark. I knew exactly what he meant about the danger of the marsh— and being with him.
    “I feel the same way about the marsh. Perhaps we have something in common