Bryan’s head snapped back as if she had slapped him. His jaw tightened ominously. “Well, it certainly isn’t for martyrs, is it?” he asked darkly.
Rachel stared at him, her eyes round with hurt.
In a saner moment he would have called himself a bastard, but he had some pent-up pain of his own to vent, and he was only human.
“I think you don’t want to believe there could be a painless solution to your problems because you’re so damned determined to sacrifice yourself to Addie,” he said, leaning over the desk toward her, unconsciously trying to intimidate her with his size. “You’ve got it all mapped out in that pragmatic head of yours how you’re going to make it up to her for wanting a life of your own. You’ve probably got it figured out to the nth degree the exact amount of suffering you’ve got to do to redeem yourself.”
Silence hung between them like the blade of an ax. Bryan stood on one side of the walnut desk, his chest heaving in the aftermath of his outburst. Rachel stood on the other side, her shoulders stiff with pride, her eyes shining with tears she refused to shed.
After a long moment she said quietly, “I’m not a masochist, Bryan. I’m a realist. In the real world people have to learn to deal with problems in a realistic way. Now, If you’ll excuse me, I have to go see to mine.”
She turned and went to the door, praying she could make her getaway before the dam burst, but the study door wouldn’t open. She grasped the knob with both hands, twisted it, rattled it, yanked on it, but it wouldn’t budge.
“Dammit,” she swore, sniffling as she yanked on the knob and kicked the door with the toe of her sneaker simultaneously. “Damn this stupid old house.”
Bryan watched her, his whole being aching with a ferocious attack of remorse. He’d meant every word he’d said, but he had certainly never meant to say them out loud. He would have done anything to spare Rachel hurt, yet he had just inflicted her with a verbal forty lashes because he was feeling frustrated. It would serve him right if she never spoke to him again, he thought morosely. It would serve him right if she threw him out. Or maybe he should just go…
Apologize, stupid.
He hesitated, but suddenly his feet were moving forward. He felt almost as if some outside force were propelling him toward Rachel, who was still struggling with the door. He stopped behind her and reached out to carefully cup her shoulders in his big hands. She jumped and stiffened as if she expected him to become violent. Bryan winced. It wasn’t enough that he had to deal with his own pain for what he’d done; now he had to feel Rachel’s as well. It was apt punishment, he supposed, but he couldn’t help but curse his sixth sense just the same.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, bending his head down so the fresh scent of her hair teased his nostrils. “I’m sorry, angel. I shouldn’t have said any of that. I know you’re doing what you think is best. I shouldn’t have lost my temper.”
Rachel tried to hold herself rigid, but she wasn’t able to sustain it against the strangely physical pressure to lean back against him. The sting of his words was still bringing tears to her eyes, but she had to admit to feelings of regret herself. She’d been the first one to draw blood, bursting Bryan’s bubble of enthusiasm with the pin of practicality. Maybe he wasn’t realistic or responsible, but he was trying to help her in his own misguided way. And she couldn’t deny the fact that she loved him, or that it hurt her to hurt him.
She sighed as the fight drained out of her and Bryan wrapped his arms around her. “I’m sorry too.”
She was sorry for a lot of things, not the least of which was the inherent differences in their philosophies. She was sorry fate had thrown them together at such an inopportune time. She was sorry she couldn’t believe in magic the way he did.
“I don’t want us to fight,” she whispered, twisting around in his embrace and throwing her arms around his neck. Their time together was going to be too short as it was, she thought, her heart aching. There was no sense wasting it on senseless battles about ideology.
Bryan hugged her tight, closing his eyes against another wave of pain. He had to find some way to show her that her life didn’t have to be all sacrifice. He especially had to find a way to show her they didn’t need to sacrifice their love, that it would be strong enough to withstand anything if only she would believe.
He gave her a tentative, heart-stealing smile, his blue eyes brimming with vulnerability. “Friends again?”
Rachel nodded. She sniffed, blinked back the last of her tears, and lifted a hand to brush at the errant lock of tawny hair that fell across Bryan’s forehead and into his eyes. A gentle smile curved her mouth.
“I thought you were going to get a haircut.”
His expression went comically blank, then guilty. A warm blush colored his high cheekbones. He ducked his head sheepishly. “Um… I guess I forgot.”
“Come on,” Rachel said, chuckling softly. “Maybe we can get Mother to do it for you. She’s a whiz with a scissors, you know.”
They shared a smile, letting the moment heal the wounds they had inflicted, then Bryan turned the doorknob with suspicious ease and they walked out of the study together.
TWELVE
The term fool’s gold had taken on a whole new, personal dimension for Bryan. In the three days since he’d discovered the possibility of there being a treasure hidden somewhere in or around Drake House, he had spent nearly every waking moment searching for it. He had inspected the house from its musty, cobweb-filled attic to its dank, dark cellar. He had painstakingly examined every wall and floor in search of hidden compartments. He had experienced considerable excitement upon discovering a secret vault in the basement, only to be visited by crushing disappointment hours later when he finally managed to get the thing open and found nothing inside but some old National Geographics and a ship in a bottle.
His search of the grounds had been no less futile. If Arthur “Ducky” Drake had buried his booty, he had certainly left behind no clues in the lawn as to where it was. Of course, nearly sixty years had gone by. Whatever Ducky might have left behind could have been long gone by now.
Bryan heaved a sigh as he went over it all in his mind yet again. He’d spent the entire morning in the study, mostly sitting and staring. This had presumably been Arthur Drake’s favorite room. It was where the man had hung his portrait. It was probably where he had written the journal Porky and Rat so coveted-the journal Bryan had photocopied in its entirety before handing it over to them.
He went over the last of the entries again, then pulled his glasses off and rubbed at his weary eyes. The nearest thing to a clue he had found in Drake’s writings was mention of his pleasure boat, the Treasure. It was on that craft Ducky Drake had met his end on Armistice Day, 1931, when the ship had gone down with all aboard her. The last few notes Drake had made in his journal after the mention of “sticking the pig” were about his concerns over the whereabouts of his vanished friend A.W. and a couple of vague references to having some workmen come to do minor repairs around the house-plumbing and brickwork and the like.
Maybe Arthur Drake and his gold were both now lying at the bottom of the Pacific. Maybe Lorraine Clement had been correct in her hunch that Wimsey had been the elusive gentleman bandit, in which case poring over the Drake journal was a waste of time. But if Wimsey were the thief, why wouldn’t he tell Addie where the gold was? Because it wasn’t there?
Maybe Rachel was right, he conceded. Maybe it was all a big wild goose chase.