Free Deadly Vows by Brenda Joyce Page B

and he was always the most self-deprecating when he was drinking himself into a state of oblivion.
    â€œNo.”
    She prayed that this was a very good sign—that he wasn’t hurt—and that he would be eager to hear her explain what had kept her from their wedding. “Thank you,” Francesca said. “I can find the library myself, Alfred.”
    He hesitated. “You look a sight, Miss Cahill. Do you want to freshen up?”
    She shook her head and hurried down the hall, hoping she would not run into any of the family. The house was terribly quiet. It reminded her of a home in mourning. She did not like having such morbid thoughts and sheignored them. She wanted nothing more than to be in Hart’s arms.
    The heavy rosewood door to his library was closed. Francesca hesitated, her heart racing with unnerving force. Finally she pushed it open.
    Hart was seated at his desk, hunched over the papers he was reading. He lifted his head, his gaze slamming onto her.
    She managed to smile. “Hello.”
    The distance of a tennis court was between them. Francesca shut the door and hurried forward, her heart pounding wildly. “Hart, I am so sorry! I have had the most awful day!”
    He slowly rose to his full height, which was an inch or two over six feet. There was something controlled about the way he rose to tower over his desk and she faltered. Surely he noticed how untidy and scratched she was. Surely he was worried about her! “I have been locked up,” she cried. “And I found my portrait!”
    He did not give her his characteristic once-over. Unblinkingly, as if he hadn’t heard a word she said, he said calmly, “I see you have had a change of heart, Francesca. I see that you have seen the light.”
    She was very alarmed. “Didn’t you hear me? I was locked in a gallery—that was why I missed our wedding. I am so sorry!” she cried. “I have not had a change of heart!”
    He was as still as a statue. She couldn’t even tell if he was breathing. “I am well aware that you missed the wedding.” He spoke as if they were discussing the summer rain. His calm monotone never changed. “Are you hurt?”
    Didn’t he care that she had been locked up? “No! Not in the way that you mean!”
    â€œGood.” He looked down at the papers on his desk andreached for one. Francesca was shocked. What was he doing? Wasn’t he going to look at her face, her hands, and ask what had happened? Didn’t he want to know where the blasted portrait was, so they could retrieve and destroy it?
    He glanced at her as if she were a stranger. “Is there something further you wish to say? As you can see, I am quite occupied right now.”
    â€œCalder, aren’t you listening? I found that damn portrait—that is why I was late.” She almost sobbed. “This was to be our wedding night! We must talk about what happened!”
    He shuffled the papers, but his gaze was on hers, and it was impossible to know what he was thinking or feeling. His face was carved in stone. “I don’t care what happened. We have nothing further to discuss.”
    She froze. “I beg your pardon?”
    He looked down at the papers on his desk again and began to slowly rearrange them.
    She ran forward. What was wrong with him? Why wasn’t he angry? Why wasn’t he shouting at her? “I know you don’t mean that. I know you care about what happened to me today.” When he did not look at her, she cried urgently, “We must plan another wedding.”
    He finally set the papers down and stared at her. “There is not going to be another wedding.”
    She choked, her heart exploding with sickening force in her chest. Only his desk stood between them now. “You can’t mean that!”
    â€œBut I do.” And finally, she heard the twinge of anger in his tone.
    It was a moment before she spoke, and it was an