“It’s always been you, tesora. Don’t you know that? I told you in every letter, every kiss.” He pulled her closer.
She put her fists up between them, heart rushing. “What are you doing?”
“You want me to apologize. Very well. I deeply apologize for wounding you. It was foolish and . . . unfaithful.”
Carina bristled. “Who told you to say that? Mamma?” She struggled, but he held on. “Did she think if you admitted your fault I would fall back into your arms and swoon?”
His eyes flashed. “You’ve grown a tongue like Divina’s.”
“Can you blame her, the way you used her?”
“Me?” He raised his brows with a snort. “It was she who came to me.”
Carina glared. “And you merely accommodated.”
He pressed her into the tree. “I’ve apologized, Carina. Now you must pardon me.”
She stiffened. “I forgave you already.”
He raised one hand to cup her face. “Yes?”
She swallowed the tightness in her throat. This was Flavio, whom she had loved most of her life, with whom she would always have a connection. Could she make him see? “I left here to hurt you, to make you pay for hurting me. A thousand miles I wanted you to come and beg my forgiveness. But in Crystal, I learned another way. I forgave you without an apology because the bitterness would have destroyed me. And I no longer wanted to hurt you.”
He dampened his lips. “Then why did you marry him?”
Had Quillan no name to Flavio? He could not honor him even so far? “Because I love him.”
She saw stark hurt in Flavio’s eyes, and it saddened her to put it there. It wasn’t what she wanted after all. There was no joy in breaking his heart. Then his face changed, and he went to that place inside himself where she couldn’t follow. His breath thinned, and his hand tightened on her jaw. Something savage came from inside him, something she had never seen before. His voice rasped, “For that, I will destroy him.”
She trembled. Flavio’s hands left her abruptly, but she stayed pressed to the tree until he had left the courtyard and stalked away into the deepening dusk. She must go to Quillan, warn him. She gathered her shawl. Outside the walls of the courtyard, the wind was cold. Spring had not yet gained control, and she shivered as she hurried through the deepening darkness. No brother stopped her, likely because they had given Flavio his privacy. And they wouldn’t guess her foolish enough to go out so late afoot.
There was enough of a moon to show her the road, little more. But she knew the way. Her chest heaved inside her corset as she all but ran. What if Flavio had gone directly? But that would be murder. Flavio could not, would not . . . She had time, she tried to tell herself, but her feet wouldn’t listen.
At last she reached the plaza. Unlike Crystal, where music blared and hollers and gunshots broke the night, Sonoma was merely pleasantly lively. People enjoyed themselves at the hotels and restaurants, but there was a lazy quality to their passing. In contrast, Carina’s pace was frantic.
Where would she find him? The store? No, it was all closed up and dark. She rushed to the Union Hotel and passed through its front doors.
The clerk looked up from his book. “Good evening, Miss DiGratia.”
She glared, then realized he had no way of knowing she was married. “Good evening, Mr. Renault. I must see one of your guests. It’s urgent.”
“Who is it, miss?”
“Quillan Shepard.”
The clerk looked at her a moment, then checked the register and said, “He’s in room thirteen.”
She hurried up the stairs and banged on number thirteen’s door. In less than a breath it swung open and Quillan grabbed her inside.
“What is it, Carina? What’s wrong?”
“I looked for you at the store.”
“I haven’t gone over yet.”
She clutched his hands. “You can’t go.”
“What’s the matter?”
His tone and expression were far too stoic. She had to make him see. Her words came in a rush. “It’s Flavio. He’s going to hurt you—destroy you, he said. We have to go. Now. Before it’s too late.”
Quillan stared into her face as though he hadn’t heard.
“I don’t care about my things. Let’s take the wagon and leave.”
He let go of her. “I can’t run, Carina; don’t ask me to.”
“But—”
The side of his mouth twitched. “I thought you said he was a pacifist.”
He would joke? “You heard Ti’Giuseppe. Whatever he believes, or thinks he does, is subject to his heart. And right now his heart is violent.” She gripped his forearms. “You must believe me.”
“I do. But I won’t run away. I won’t give him the satisfaction.”
“Oh!” She shook him. “This is not the time for pride.”
“It’s all I have.” He jerked his arms free. “If I can’t think well of myself, who will? Your family? The DeMornays?” It was a bitter tone she’d not heard from him in some time. But that was less important than his danger.
She had to make him understand. “Flavio will do what he says. And he will have the whole community behind him.”
Quillan didn’t answer, just stood opening and closing his hands at his sides. “I won’t run.” He turned and walked to the fireplace, stared into the brazier.
“It’s not running, Quillan. It’s . . . starting over.”
“It’s admitting I don’t belong.”
He didn’t belong! That was the point. He was not one of them and never would be. But she couldn’t tell him that. She dropped her hands to her sides, tears sparkling in her eyes. “Please.”
He came to her and held her shoulders. “I know you don’t understand. But—“his voice thickened—“if I were driven away again, I don’t think I could stand it.”
She covered his hands with hers, seeing his pain. She hadn’t known, hadn’t realized the depth of his need to be accepted. He would rather die than fail again. And he might. “Signore, help us.” She closed her eyes on her tears.
“Don’t cry.” His hands tightened.
“What are we going to do?” She clung to him.
He brought her gently into his arms. “I don’t know.”
Her hair fell over his hands, and she held onto his waist as though to a buoy at sea. She remembered the time in his tent when he had impulsively held her just so, trying to calm her hysterics. He’d been so solid, so convincing. She wanted nothing more than to hold him, to feel him warm and breathing and strong. “Don’t make me go back.”
“You have to.”
“Not now.” She clung tighter.
He rested his face in her hair, his breath warming her scalp. “No, not now.” And he kissed her.
Quillan lay beside his wife, too agitated to sleep. Her breath was a warm mist on his arm, and he studied the fall of her eyelashes on her cheek, the curve of her lips. They were slack and slightly parted, just showing the edge of her white teeth. He would have to send her back. There would be no end to strife if he kept her at the hotel. And only from within the bosom of her family could she resolve her need.