Widow - Anne Stuart [63]
Who hated Charlie that much? And why?
15
It still felt peaceful in the ruined church, Charlie thought. Not even Maguire had been able to spoil it for her. Even with the old window and doors completely gone and only a small section of roof remaining, it felt like a safe, holy place.
Several of the old pews were still there, and she made her way to one of them, curling up in the corner with her feet tucked underneath her. It was growing dark, but she didn’t mind. Up here she felt protected, at home. Alone, which was the only way she ever had felt completely safe.
Her hands smelled like soap, with no lingering scent of paint. Logically she’d known it couldn’t be blood on the doorknob, on her hands, but her heart hadn’t listened to logic. It wasn’t until Maguire held her and washed the stuff from her hands that she finally calmed down.
How could Maguire’s touch calm her? He was the most dangerous of all. And yet for a brief moment, with his body pressed up against her back, she’d felt at peace.
She really must be losing it, she thought. Responding to a pig like Maguire and not Henry. She should do what Henry wanted. She should grit her teeth and get in bed with him, tonight, before any more time passed. It wasn’t that she couldn’t bear it. She’d survived Pompasse, even welcomed him with a certain tenderness. If the act of sex had seemed slightly messy and degrading, it had brought the old man pleasure, and for that she’d been grateful. He’d given her the first security, the first home she’d ever known. It was a reasonable trade.
She loved Henry—surely she should be able to give him that same pleasure. He didn’t expect much from her—not athletics or inventiveness, just acceptance of his body.
But ever since she’d left Pompasse she had been unable to bear a man’s touch. Her doctor had suggested that it was simply a case of Henry being the wrong man, but Charlie refused to consider that possibility. Henry was in every way the right man, the perfect man for her. It was only her own coldness that stood in the way, and sooner or later she’d get over it. She had to. Or at least learn how to fake it again.
She’d probably been far too honest with Henry, she thought, pulling her knees up and wrapping her arms around them. He was so solicitous, so careful not to make too many demands, that she felt even more guilty. There were times she almost wished he’d just grab her and kiss her.
But then, Maguire had done just that, hadn’t he? And she’d hated it.
Hadn’t she?
She leaned her head back against the battered old pew. She didn’t want to go back down to the house, but she’d have to, sooner or later. Henry would worry about her. Olivia probably wouldn’t notice, but Maguire wouldn’t leave her alone. It would take her a few minutes, but she’d pull herself together and climb back down the steep path to the farmhouse. After this morning’s ugly scene she had no intention of going by way of Madame Antonella’s place. The old lady was getting more and more confused, and Lauretta no longer seemed as capable of calming her. Had Pompasse made any arrangements for her, for the time when she could no longer live there safely? Did they have the same sort of assisted living in Italy that they had in the States? Or would she end up in some depressing nursing home, cursing everyone?
No, Pompasse wouldn’t have condemned her to a life like that. He’d always been touchingly devoted to the old lady, the first great love of his life. He never abandoned her in life—he wouldn’t have abandoned her in death, either.
Of course, Pompasse had always considered himself immortal. And, in a way, he was. His paintings would live forever, but his body had only been human, and subject to the laws of nature. He was dead, he was dust and ashes now, and in a few days those ashy remains would be buried in the vineyard.
And then maybe Charlie would finally be free.
She needed to talk more with Henry, to see what he