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CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Tell me not, in mournful numbers, Life is but an empty dream! For the soul is dead that slumbers, And things are not what they seem.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
When Ivonne opened her eyes, she gasped. Grace Vivienne was standing over her bed, a look of pure venom on her lined face. As soon as she realized Ivonne was awake, the hatred dissolved like sugar in water to be replaced with a phony tight smile. "Good morning, Ivonne," Grace Vivienne said curtly. "I trust you slept well." Ivonne pushed herself up in the bed. "I slept very well, thank you, Mrs. Brell." The old woman nodded as though she had expected to hear as much. "I am told your husband is on his way over to pick you up for the ceremony. Would you like me to have Bossie help you get dressed." She swept an arm behind her. "Your mourning dress was delivered a few moments ago." Ivonne's dark eyes slipped past her hostess and a stab of hurt went through her when she saw the black apparel lying across the settee. She ducked her head as tears for her dead child rose up. "I would be grateful for the help, Ma'am, thank you." Grace Vivienne's nose lifted into the air. "We have not been invited to the services, as I am sure you would suspect." At the mention of Edward's callousness, Ivonne winced; but she could not defend her husband so did not try. All she could do was apologize, which she began to do. "No need," the old woman said, cutting her off. She turned, then looked back over her shoulder. "I would stay and help, as well, but I must see to Rory Sinclair." Ivonne's head snapped up. "Is he ill?" A brief flicker of spite shot through Grace Vivienne's stare before it was damped. "Oh, of course you would not have heard," she said with false compassion. "He was set upon by persons unknown two days ago and severely beaten." "He was attacked?" Ivonne whispered, her hand going up to her throat. "Yes," the old woman acknowledged. "And I think you and I both know who was responsible for this cowardly assault, don't we, Mrs. Delacroix?" Ivonne's eyes widened. "You think Edward was behind it?" Grace Vivienne smiled hatefully. "Oh, my dear, I don't think it; I know it!" With that, she snapped open the door and left, shutting the portal firmly behind her, ignoring Ivonne's question: "Is he all right?" When she received no answer, Ivonne flung the covers back and stood, swaying a little from three days lying in bed. She had wondered why Sinclair had not come to see her since that first day; now, she knew. "Damn you, Edward Delacroix," she hissed. "Damn you to the Abyss!" There was a soft rap at the door, then Bossie came in, her wide face glistening with sweat. "Gonna be a scorcher today, Miss Ivonne," the black woman announced. "Already hotter than blazes." "How is he?" Ivonne asked, reaching out to grab the other woman's beefy arm. "How badly was he hurt?" Bossie shook her head, the red check turban wrapped around her sparse hair in peril of coming unwrapped. She reached up a chubby hand to push it back in place. "He got himself a bunch a bruises and cuts. Them mens broke his nose and Doc Doorenbos said he gots a few broken ribs 'though nothing inside got busted." Ivonne winced. "When did this happen?" "The evening before last." "What?" Ivonne gasped. "And no one told me?" "We's didn't know 'till last night when Mr. Leland done went and fetched the boy back here. Nobody knowed." She winked. "And I'll tell you Miss Grace just about had a cow when Mr. Lee came riding back and told her. He and his brothers took the buckboard over to Mr. Sin's place and fetched him here." "Then who was taking care of him?" Ivonne demanded, her thoughts on Sinclair lying hurt in his cabin with no one to see to his needs. "Miss Emerson found him on the road morning 'fore last and she and Mr. Tucker took him home." Bossie shrugged. "I guess Miss Leonie took care of him; I don'ts rightly know. Ain't talked to the boy this morning." "Help me dress," Ivonne said. "I have to see him." "Don't want you to," Bossie declared. "I don't care what you…….." "Not me," Bossie corrected. "Him. He told Miss Grace last night that you was not to be allowed in to see him." "Why?" Ivonne cried. "Don't want you to sees how he looks, I'm thinking," the black woman explained. "Ain't a fittin' sight for a lady." Ivonne stood there, chewing on her lip. She had to respect his wishes, but she was gods-be-damned sure not going to leave Willow Glen until she found out how he was. And if Edward was responsible for the beating Sinclair had taken………. "Help me dress," she said again. "I sure am sorry about yore chile, Miss Ivonne," Bossie stated. "Thank you," Ivonne replied, but her thoughts were not on the product of Edward's insanity. She mourned her child only in that it had been a part of her. In some secret part of her soul, she was glad she would not have a reminder of that terrible day when Edward had attacked her. "You're good at such things, aren't you?" Ivonne grated, unaware that she had spoken aloud. "Beg pardon, Ma'am?" Bossie queried. Ivonne flung out an angry hand. "Not you, Boss Lady. " Her eyes narrowed into thin slits of hatred. "I wasn't talking about you." Another rap at the door and before Ivonne could call out, the portal opened and Evangeline swept in, her black satin dress sparkling in the shaft of sunlight coming in from the tall mullion windows. "If you would like me to do your hair………." she began, but Ivonne cut her off. "I don't need anything from you or your brother," Ivonne snapped. "Kindly leave my room and do not speak to me for the remainder of the day, Ma'am." Evangeline blinked. "Whatever has gotten into you, Sister." "I am not your sister!" Ivonne hissed, her eyes flaring. She lifted a hand and pointed an accusing finger at Evangeline. "Did you know what Edward was planning?" "About the funeral?" Evangeline hedged, knowing full well that wasn't what this was about. "I am sure you can understand why he wants it to be just family. He…….." "Did you know he hired thugs to beat Sinclair?" Ivonne shouted at her. Edward's sister snapped her mouth shut, narrowed her gaze, and lifted her chin. When she spoke, her voice was cool and decidedly spiteful. "I knew no such thing although I was awake when they brought your………" Her lips slipped into a mocking smile. "……Your ex-paramour here last evening. No one knows who set upon him, Ivonne." "Oh, I beg to differ," Ivonne ground out. "The entire county will have learned by now, I'm sure!" Evangeline's chin went higher. "Do not, I caution you," she said with emphasis, "place the blame on Edward unless you have proof." "I don't need proof," Ivonne seethed. "I know all too well the depths of depravity to which Edward Delacroix can sink!" She flung out an angry hand. "Now, get the hell out of here and don't bother me again, you freeloading bitch!" She laughed at the gasp of shock which shot from her sister-in-law then pointedly turned her back on the woman. Her spine stiff with outrage; her eyes snapping blue fire, Evangeline spun around and stormed from the room. "I guess you done told her," Bossie chuckled as she began to lace up Ivonne's corset. "I'll not have that woman under my roof another week," Ivonne declared. "I'd watch her if I was you," Bossie warned. "I
just don'ts trust her." Not that it mattered, Ivonne decided. Her child was gone; there would be others. But she would be gods-be-damned if they would be Edward's!
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The coffee burned his tender lips and Sinclair put the cup aside. He'd been unable to eat much of the breakfast Bossie had prepared for him because it was painful to chew. His jaw, although not broken, sure felt as though it were. And his nose, broken and swollen beyond belief, made it impossible for him to taste the food anyway. His eyes were swollen as badly as they had been the day before, but his vision was still blurred and his head spun when he moved too fast, something his broken ribs didn't allow to happen too often. "You've a concussion, Sinclair," Doc Doorenbos had told him. "Best to stay in bed a few more days." "He isn't going anywhere," Sin's grandmother had proclaimed. "The constables will be out later today to talk to you," Conor put in. He and Brendan had ridden into Savannah to report the attack only to find out Tuck had already filed a report. Now, sitting there, trying to shift positions in the bed that would not put so much pressure on his battered body, Sinclair heard the shouting coming from Ivonne's room and knew she'd been told. He frowned. He had asked his grandmother not to tell Ivonne, but he should have known the old woman would anyway. "She is the reason you are lying here flat on your back, your face looking like something the cat dragged in," his grandmother had snapped. "I warned you to stay away from her, but you would not listen, would you Rory Sinclair?" "Day dreaming, Rory Sinclair?" Sin turned his head and saw his grandmother in the doorway. He hadn't heard her knock, then realized she wouldn't have anyway. His privacy meant nothing to the old bat. She'd proven that the day she'd made him strip in front of her. "You told her," he accused. "She asked," his grandmother replied. She shut the door behind her, then came to the bed. "How do you feel?" "The same way I look," he mumbled. "That bad, eh?" the old woman chuckled. Reaching behind her, she pulled up a chair and sat down. "We need to talk." "About what?" he asked, warily, not liking the look in her faded eyes. "I will not allow an uncivilized jackanapes like Edward Delacroix to molest a member of my family and think to get away with it," she stated. "Steps are being taken to find the men responsible and see them brought to justice." "I'll find them and mete out my own justice, Grandmother," Sinclair said through clenched teeth. "I think not," Grace Vivienne denied. "Taking the law into your own hands would only get you a prison cell." She smiled. "I would think you'd had your fill of them for awhile." That was true enough, Sin acknowledged. "I can't let him get away with this, Grandmother." "And he won't," she responded. Her eyes became brittle, hard. "Do you know why that woman married him?" A warning went off in Sinclair's head. He didn't like the way she was staring at him and he didn't like the tone of her voice when she'd asked her question. Nor the disrespect with which she had referred to Ivonne. "Her name is Ivonne, Grandmother," he reminded her. "Yes, I know," Grace Vivienne agreed. "And if things had turned out the way I had planned, her last name would have been McGregor," he said quietly. "I am aware of that, Rory Sinclair," his grandmother grated, her lined face filled with resentment. "But you never wanted that, did you?" he asked, knowing full well she had had something to do with Ivonne and Edward's marriage. What, he didn't know, and something told him he really didn't want to ever find out. "I never thought she was good enough for you," came the admission. Before her grandson could defend his choice of wife, Grace Vivienne held up her hand. "I thought the Mahon girl would suit better." "Because her father's land adjoins Wind Lass to the east and since Lisa is an only child, she would have inherited the lands and they could have been incorporated into Wind Lass' holdings," he accused. "True," his grandmother conceded. "Lisa was in love with Nick McCormack," he informed her. "They had an understanding." "Sean's son was killed at Shiloh," Grace Vivienne replied. Sinclair's face clouded. "I didn't know that. I'm sorry. He was a nice guy." "I am told he was," his grandmother answered. For a long moment, neither spoke, then footsteps down the hall drew their attention to the door. Bossie's encouraging words and Ivonne's low answers filtered through the closed portal, then faded as the two women descended the staircase. "The funeral is today," Grace Vivienne said quietly. "How is she holding up?" he asked just as quietly. "Quite well considering she never wanted the brat." Sinclair's mouth twisted with anger. "Why do you make comments like that, Grandmother?" he demanded. "You have no notion at all how she felt about…………." "A child she conceived out of wedlock?" the old woman cut in. If there was one thing that Sinclair knew for a fact about his grandmother, the woman was unscrupulously honest. She never repeated gossip and spoke only when she knew what she was saying was the absolute truth. If she was suggesting Ivonne was pregnant before she married Edward, there was reason for her to say it. "They had an affair," he said flatly, wanting things clarified. Grace Vivienne's expression was pure evil as she spoke. "He came to me, pouring out his love for that woman," she said with disgust. "Telling me how he had always loved her. She believed you were dead since we'd received no word for months. She was grieving herself to death and he feared for her life." "Ivonne always hated him," he said, wondering when that had changed. "He asked my thoughts on the matter and I told him I believed it would be best if she found herself a new beau." Sinclair slowly closed his eyes to that piece of news. He could just hear the thoughts clicking away inside his grandmother's head back then: find a husband for 'the woman' and get her out of Rory Sinclair's life, should he ever come home unscathed from the War. "So you gave him permission to court my fiancee," he whispered. "I suggested he court her, yes," his grandmother answered, "but she would not receive him." Sinclair opened his eyes and looked up. "As a matter of fact, she rebuffed each of his attempts to entice her into a relationship." Something dark and very evil was stirring in his grandmother's gaze as she stared at him. A chill went down Sinclair's body and he found himself gripping the sheets in both fists. "I don't believe anyone has ever denied Edward Delacroix anything he's ever wanted," he heard his grandmother saying, but her words seemed to be coming from far, far away. Already in his soul, he knew what she was going to say and he didn't really want to hear it. "No," he said, too quietly for anyone to have heard. "So he followed her out to the riverbank one afternoon and………………." He sat there, his gaze locked on his grandmother as she told him how Edward Delacroix had lain in wait for Ivonne. How the man had poured out his feelings for her only to be rejected soundly. How Ivonne had turned to go and Edward had stopped her, dragging her back and into his arms while he thrust his unwanted kisses on her protesting lips. How Ivonne had managed to pull away and run, screaming for help that never came. How Edward had caught up with her and thrown her to the ground, angrily yelling that if she would not have him in an honorable way, he would have her any way he wanted. Of how Edward had raped the love of Sinclair's life. "No," Sinclair whispered. "When she discovered she was in the family way, her parents suggested she marry Edward to keep the gossip at a minimum." "No." The word was a plea for help: a negation of the terrible pain that was destroying what was left of Rory Sinclair McGregor's world, just as Edward Delacroix knew it would. "She came to me, asking for my council and I………." "Told her to marry him," Sinclair said bitterly. "There was no other way," his grandmother responded. "Yes, there was," he protested. A thought occurred to him. "Why didn't Leland and Conor go after that son-of-a-bitch and kill him for raping Ivonne?" "They knew nothing of what had happened," she told him. He stared at her. "You didn't tell them?" "It was none of their concern and she asked me not to say anything for fear they would be arrested for murdering Delacroix, which they surely would have been." He cocked his head to one side. "But it doesn't matter if I kill him, though, does it?" he asked. "Oh, I am counting on you doing so," she replied. He just looked at her, knowing how she felt about him, hurt even more by the obvious unconcern she had for his life. She didn't want him to go after the men who had beaten him for fear he'd be arrested and put in jail. No, she wanted him to go after Edward Delacroix and, if he was hanged for putting a bullet between the Cajun bastard's eyes, well, that was the price to be paid. "What's to happen to Ivonne after I swing from the scaffold, Grandmother?" he asked. Grace Vivienne waved a dismissive hand at his words. "Do you really think I would allow one of my grandsons to be convicted of murdering that white trash?" "You couldn't care less what happens to me," he accused. His grandmother's gaze narrowed. "I have never lied to you, Rory Sinclair. You are a grown man and I am sure you know I have never borne you any love." He winced, hearing the old woman actually admit to it was worse than he could imagined it would be. "But nevertheless, I will not have the stigma of murderer attached to your father's name. You will never be punished for ridding the world of that Delacroix scum, I can promise you that." How she'd do it, he had no idea, but he knew just as surely as he sat there that she would see he did not hang for killing Edward. Not that she would care if he did, but the family name could not be besmirched. At least that was a consolation, he thought, with a snort of self-pity. "That is the only way you will ever be with her," his grandmother said slyly, bringing his gaze back to her. "She will be a very wealthy widow and will need a husband to care for her." He let out a long breath. "You've got it all figured out, don't you, Grandmother?" he asked. "That's what you want, isn't it, Rory Sinclair?" she said, her lined face innocent of expression. "Isn't that what your cousins want for you, as well?" She could not have made her instructions any clearer to him, he thought. Kill Edward and then marry his widow. And Wind Lass would revert to the McGregor family. He lowered his head, closed his eyes, and gave in to her. Just as he had given in to her all his life. Whatever his grandmother had wanted, he had done. The only difference this time was it was something he, too, wanted more than life itself. And valued more than his own life. "All right," he agreed, not looking up so he did not see the triumph emblazoned on the old woman's face. "You will kill him?" "Yes." Grace Vivienne reached out a wrinkled hand and placed it lightly atop her grandson's arm. "That's a good boy," she proclaimed, then stood up. "You will do what is right for the family." She walked to the door. "Grandmother?" She stopped, looked back at him. "Yes, Rory Sinclair?" He fused his gaze with hers. "What if he kills me instead?" The old woman smiled brutally . "Then I shall weep at your
funeral, dear," she said, opened the door and left.
THE LEGENDS BEGIN WITH THE KEEPER OF THE WIND
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