Daughters of the Summer Storm by Frances Statham (good fiction books to read TXT) 📕

expecting to see her husband Crane. But instead, there was another man glaring at her—one with green eyes and sinewed muscles held in check under the fine linen coat.

Marigold, now wide awake, stiffened. Staring at her, making her aware of the thin camisole and petticoat that barely covered her, was the man responsible for all her pain, all her disgrace.

"You!" she said, and pushed his hands from her arms as she took a step backward.

"Marigold?" His voice was incredulous. He reached out, to touch her, to make sure that she was not a mirage standing before him. But she again knocked his arm away.

"What are you doing in this house?" she asked, her voice rising in agitation. Without waiting for a reply, she ordered, "Get out at once, Shaun Banagher, or I'll have my father throw you out."

At the hostility in her voice, Shaun stood, rooted to the floor. He saw the flushed cheeks, the smoldering look that changed the girl's normally beautiful eyes into the glittery, spitting ones of a cat.

"That would be rather hard to do, Souci," he said, "since this house now belongs to me."

"I. . . I don't believe you. My father would never allow you to. . . to take anything of his."

He continued staring at her and said, "Put on your clothes, or I shall take something else that belongs to Robert Tabor. I won't be responsible for my actions if you continue to stand before me, displaying your obvious charms."

With heaving breasts, Marigold fled across the room to the wardrobe and opened the door. It was empty. Of course, if what Shaun said was true—that he owned the townhouse—then her clothes would no longer be in the room.

Marigold turned to see Shaun poking at her unfortunate black dress with the toe of his boot. He leaned over, picking the dress up, and then he dropped it to the floor as if it were too sullied for him to handle.

His action made her furious. "My dress, if you please," she said in her haughtiest manner.

Shaun made no effort to give it to her. "You do not have another dress with you, Marigold?"

"The carriage broke down. My. . . my luggage is still in it."

"Then, how did you get here?"

"I. . . took the train—from Blacksfield."

"Alone?"

"That is none of your business, Shaun. Now, please give me my dress."

"No, Marigold. It is not fit for anything but the garbage heap. Wait here until I bring you something to cover yourself. Then we'll decide what to do."

"Shaun," she called after him. But already he was out the door, taking her only dress with him.

Much later she sat at the breakfast table across from Shaun Banagher. Although her face was still sullen, her hair was clean and shining, with the golden curls in place.

The sleeves of the dark blue silk robe were rolled up, and the sash that held together the long, flowing robe was knotted twice about her waist.

Shaun watched while Marigold satisfied her hunger, buttering yet another hot biscuit and spreading the damson jelly over it.

"Where is my father?" she asked between bites. "If you own his house, you must know where he is."

For a second Shaun stared at her, lifting his brow in a quizzical expression. "He's on Tabor Island for the summer. You know it?"

Marigold nodded. "I was born there—in the middle of a hurricane."

Shaun suddenly grinned as if she had said something amusing, and she scowled at him.

A servant came into the dining room and handed a note to his master. After reading it, Shaun said, "Good. Take everything up to the guest bedroom." When the man had gone, Shaun said, "I hope everything I ordered will fit, Marigold. When you finish your breakfast, you will need to get dressed."

She stopped eating and glowered at Shaun. "You ordered clothes—for me?"

He nodded.

"But you had no right. If you had not been so. . . so contrary, taking my dress, I could have managed. I didn't need your help, Shaun Banagher."

The stubborn words brought a look of displeasure to Shaun's face. "You will always need help, Marigold—to protect you from your own impulsiveness."

Angry now, Shaun leaned forward, "Why did you marry Crane Caldwell? Was it because you knew you could do as you pleased with a husband like that?"

Marigold lifted her chin. "You know very well why I married. Crane."

"No, I don't. But perhaps you can explain it to me. I gather it was not completely your father's fault. No one could ever force you into something you didn't want to do."

"I married Crane because I. . . because I. . . loved him," she said, her eyes flashing with angry sparks.

He quickly masked the hurt that her words brought. "If you've finished your breakfast, then I think you'd better get dressed." His voice was suddenly cold and distant. "Are you planning to go to Tabor Island?"

"Yes."

"Do you need me to make the arrangements?"

"No—thank you. I. . . I have enough money to hire a boat," she lied, her eyes blinking back the tears.

"Then I will be on my way. I am already late for an appointment." Shaun got up from the table, and Marigold, with her back to him, heard the door close.

"Damn him," she said to herself, brushing the tears from her eyes. It had not mattered that almost a year had elapsed since she had seen him. The same overwhelming love for him was still there. It had only taken his touch for Marigold to realize that she would never be free of the burning passion that would keep her from ever loving another man.

But she would not let Shaun suspect it. Her pride would see to that.

Marigold was suddenly weary. The last frantic days had taken their toll. And she still ached. But she had to get out of the house and find some way to sail to Tabor Island before Shaun came back.

Up the stairs to her old room Marigold walked. And on the bed lay a number of boxes—the