“The hand motions.” He caught her hand as it flew by. “I don’t think I’ll ever get the hand motions.”
She tugged, but he held on, laughing. “And the fire of it. Every sentence is exclaimed.” He threw up both hands. “Buon giorno! Come stai! Isn’t life incredible! I just met you on the street!”
She slapped his knee. “I won’t teach you, then.”
He settled back. “You can’t help it.”
“What do you mean?” Her lower lip pouted in pure prima donna irk.
He should stop before she really got mad, but he couldn’t resist. “I’ll learn whether you intend it or not. It just slips out.”
“What slips out?” Her hands formed fists atop her knees.
“Your language.” The train wobbled over a rough portion of track. His hat dropped off the hook and landed on the seat. He hung it back up.
“It does not.”
“Sure it does. That time in the mine shaft? You talked all night in Italian. And provoke you? Whew! There must be a switch. Gather enough emotion, out comes Italian.”
“Omaccio!”
He laughed. “Un gross’uomo.”
She slapped the magazine across his knee.
“And that’s another thing. Are all the women in your family slappers?”
Her mouth fell open with a huff. Then she snapped it shut and glared.
“Not that I mind. You can’t damage this tanned hide. But—”
“Oh!” She threw the magazine flapping into his face.
“And throwing things. I suppose I’ll get used to that.”
She jumped to her feet just as the train took a sharp turn. Quillan leaped up and caught her waist as she swayed. “It’s all right.” He addressed the startled faces around them. “Just a cramp.” He settled her back down to the seat, looking all fired to spit nails. “Careful, now. Don’t want to tumble into some gentleman’s lap.”
“Certainly not yours!”
“Now, Carina.” He laughed.
She crossed her arms and pouted.
He nudged her knee with his. “How do you say I’m sorry?”
She looked to the window and clamped her mouth shut.
He leaned across. “Pardon me? Forgive me? Anything like that in Italiano?”
“Mi dispiace.” She spoke without looking.
“Mi dispiace for having hurt you.” He took her hand. “I deserved the violence.”
She sniffed.
“Let’s see . . . bella signora.”
She turned. “What are you trying to say?”
“My wife is the most beautiful woman on the train.”
She waved him off with her hand.
“The most wonderful woman I know.” He pulled a wry smile.
“You can count on one hand the women you know.”
He imitated her gesture. Her eyes flashed. He caught her hand before she could slide to the corner. “Carina, you may not realize it, but your hands are more communicative than words. It’s the first thing I loved about you.”
“It is?” She softened.
“It is. Your gestures mesmerize me.”
“They do?” But now she looked suspicious.
He laughed. “I mean it.”
She threw both her hands up. “How would I know? One minute you tease, the next—”
“It’s in the eyes, Carina. You have to watch the eyes.”
“It’s more in your mouth. Sometimes you make your eyes like plates, but your mouth, that’s what gives you away.” She paused.
Quillan wondered what she was thinking. She reached under her seat for the satchel, drew it up, and plunked it into her lap. Carina reached in and took out a handkerchief. Was she going to cry? Surely he hadn’t upset her that much. But she unfolded it and cradled something in her palm.
“What’s that?”
She held it out. “It’s for you.”
“You bought me a locket?” He took the chain and dangled the heavy gold necklace.
“I didn’t buy it. Look inside.”
He rested the locket on his knee and worked the catch. The lid flipped open. He stared at the photograph inside.
“It’s your mother.”
He jolted, then shot his gaze to Carina. “Where did you get it?”
“Mrs. DeMornay. She was forbidden to see you, but she risked bringing it to me. She wanted you to have it . . . with her love.”
Quillan’s hand started to shake. He pressed the back of it to his knee. “I don’t understand.” Why would the woman give him a picture of his mother when she wouldn’t even admit they were related, wouldn’t say a word of acknowledgment when her husband denied the possibility, then sent her . . . love? Fury wrapped his heart like a boa constrictor, tightening until there was pain in his chest.
Carina’s words rushed on. “The locket was hers. She gave it to you, her grandson. She said you have your mother’s mouth.”
So she believed him, but wouldn’t tell him to his face. Throat tightening, he looked at the photograph. Even allowing for fuzziness in the image, his mother was lovely. And he knew her. Again his infantile mind had captured something and gave it back to him now as memory. He said, “Her eyes were blue. No, green. Something in between, very bright.”
Carina smiled.
“And I remember her hair, the feel of it. Like yours.” He looked across at his wife. “How can I remember that?”
“It’s a gift.”
Holding his mother’s face in his palm, he searched his mind. “I wish there were more.”
“But you have more than you might. You have her picture, and some memory. And your grandmother knows you.”
“My grandfather doesn’t.” Fury flared afresh.
“Mrs. DeMornay said he has to believe Rose died. He deceives himself. Maybe he doesn’t know the truth. Or it hurts too much. Maybe it isn’t judgment but pain that traps him.”
Carina was na?ve if she believed that. A man like William DeMornay didn’t delude himself. But he might easily delude others. Quillan closed the locket. “When did she give you this?”
“This morning.”
“You didn’t tell me?” How could Carina keep something like that silent? He hadn’t thought she could hide anything, yet he’d had no idea.
Carina waved a hand. “She risked too much bringing it. If you got angry, confronted William DeMornay . . .”
His hand clenched around the locket. He might have done so. Just as he had confronted his foster father, he might have forced DeMornay’s hand. “So you reined me in.”
She shrugged one shoulder, a girlish gesture that softened his mood. He slid the locket into his coat pocket and sat back in silence.
At last Carina spoke. “Are you angry?”
He shook his head. “No.” He could be—with Carina for withholding, his grandmother for conniving, his grandfather for outright rejection—but right now he sensed his mother. Anger would get in the way. He didn’t want to lose the feel of her.
Carina sighed. “Maybe I was wrong.”
“I’m not angry.”
She waved her hand. “I should have told you.”
“Carina.” He met her eyes. “Could we not talk right now?”
Her hand dropped to her lap. “You are angry.”
He dropped his head back. “I just don’t want to talk. That’s all.”