The Maid's Daughter. Janice Maynard
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She fit against his shoulder as if she had been created for just that spot. In the flashing lights from the ambulance he could see that she was dangerously near the point of exhaustion.
How in God’s name could he simply drop her off at a deserted house in her condition? “Is there anyone you can call to stay with you tonight? A friend? A neighbor?”
“No. But I’ll be fine.” She turned her head away from him.
He tucked her into the car and kicked the heat on full blast. If his big body was chilled, she must be freezing. Consigning his last hope of making the business meeting to hell, he sighed. “I’m taking you to Wolff Mountain. We have enough guest rooms for a small army. No one will bother you, but you’ll have help close by if you need it. I’ll call a tow truck in the morning and we’ll see about your car.”
She half turned to face him, her body visibly shaking. Moisture glittered in her eyes. “You don’t even remember who I am, do you? Even after you heard me say my name. Take me home, Devlyn. I don’t belong on your mountain.”
And just like that, a memory clicked …
Devlyn recalled the day with painful clarity. It was the first anniversary of the terrible tragedy that had torn the Wolff family apart. On that particular sunny afternoon, Devlyn’s father and uncle had insisted that their six combined children help scatter two urns of ashes over a newly planted rose garden on the side of the mountain.
For Devlyn, the process was gruesome and confusing. As soon as he was able, he fled to the secret cave that had become solace at his new home. A girl appeared from nowhere it seemed, staring at him with pity, pity he loathed.
“I’m sorry your mother died,” she said. Her long, caramel-brown hair had been plaited into two identical braids that hung forward over her narrow shoulders.
Devlyn was embarrassed and humiliated. Boys didn’t cry, especially not in front of girls. He ran a hand across his nose and was further mortified to see a smear of snot. “I hated her,” he said abruptly. “I’m glad she’s gone.”
The girl’s long-lashed eyes widened. “Don’t be stupid,” she said. “You can’t hate your mother. She was beautiful. Like a princess. My mother lets me go into Mr. Wolff’s bedroom sometimes when she’s cleaning … if I’m really good. I love to look at Mrs. Wolff’s picture on the wall.” She held out her hand. “Here … I made you a card.”
Devlyn’s desperate anger swelled, determined to end this encounter. “You’re not allowed,” he shouted, knocking the small folded construction paper out of her hand. “Not anymore. This is my mountain, and you don’t belong here. Go home.”
Her face crumpled. He felt as if he had kicked one of the new puppies that lived down at the stables. The silent misery on her delicate features only made him madder. “Go,” he screamed. “Go away.”
Devlyn felt anew the weight of guilt and remorse. For over two decades, he had carried the burden of knowing he had hurt a young girl with his hateful words. Now here she was. As if fate had given him a second chance.
He could pretend he didn’t know her … could text a late arrival to his much-anticipated appointment and drop Gillian as quickly as possible. But his own cruelty stared him in the face. “Gillian,” he said slowly. “Gillian Carlyle. It’s been a long time.”
Two
A quarter of a century had passed since Gillian had tried, in her own clumsy way, to extend sympathy to a hurting boy. But the passage of time had in no way dulled the memory of how she felt that day when the little rich kid kicked metaphorical sand in her face.
What made it worse was that she knew, even then, that he was right. Gillian’s mother scrubbed toilets for a living. The Wolffs were richer than God. It was the first time Gillian had fully understood a difficult truth about the haves and the have-nots.
“It took you long enough,” she said. The snarky retort was unfair, but she wasn’t in a mood to be conciliatory. Though she no longer carried a chip on her shoulder, it had taken time and maturity to help her see that the Carlyles were every bit as happy as the wealthy Wolff clan in their fortress on the mountain. Maybe more so.
As a child, she had been tormented. She begged her mother not to make Gillian go to work with her. But Doreen Carlyle had few options. Child care was not only expensive, but in a little wide-place-in-the-road like Burton, it was nonexistent.
Gillian was forced to see Devlyn occasionally, though each of them tried to ignore the other. Things were better when school started. Doreen put her young daughter on a bus before sunup for the long ride to the nearest consolidated school. And by the time Gillian returned home, her mother was finished with her shift at Wolff Castle, as the locals called it.
Gillian jerked herself out of the past, glad of the darkness that hid her turbulent emotions. She straightened in her seat. “It’s really okay to take me to my mother’s house. I promise I’ll call someone if I start to feel worse.”
It was the presence of a Wolff in the car, not her accident, that was responsible for the rapid pace of her heartbeat. Devlyn was a big man, broad through the shoulders and tall. The scent of his aftershave made her think of thick fir-tree forests and lumberjacks in flannel shirts, though the comparison was ludicrous.
Devlyn was an astute businessman, a shark in the turbulent world of financial greed. Despite the fact that her wits had been partially addled after the accident, she’d still been aware of his sartorial perfection, though he was perhaps a tad rumpled and sported a five-o’clock shadow.
He was the de facto ruler of the kingdom and, in that moment, Gillian hated him. When had he ever had to work for anything? When had he ever had to worry about money? Other than his mother’s death years ago, admittedly a terrible loss, when had he ever known true hardship?
That wasn’t fair perhaps. The Wolffs generously supported many worthy charities. Perhaps that chip on her shoulder still lingered as a splinter in her heart. And maybe she was manufacturing grievances in order to avoid admitting how much she was attracted to him.
Even as a teenager, on the few occasions she actually saw him, he had been breathtakingly handsome. Blunt, masculine features. Thick black hair with the sheen of a raven’s wing. A white smile that flashed often. And a tough, honed body that exuded strength and confidence.
Little had changed except that now he was a man and not a boy. He had filled out, lost the slightly clumsy awkwardness of puberty. His gait was strong and sure, his movements sleek as the panthers that once roamed these hills.
He shot her a glance as he once again turned onto the road that led up to the entrance to Wolff Mountain. “I’m not arguing about this, Gillian. I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you right off. But you have to admit that you’ve changed.”
Did his gaze linger on her chest? Or was that her imagination? Surely not. She might be all tingly with perfectly natural feminine longing for a man who exuded an earthy sex appeal, but to think he had any interest in her was ridiculous.
Her instinct was to shoot back with a smart-ass comment about kidnapping, but she bit her tongue. Devlyn’s mother and aunt had been snatched off a busy Charlottesville street, held for ransom and later killed. Kidnapping was not something to be joked about.
She shifted restlessly. Already her battered body bloomed with myriad aches and throbs. The paramedics had recommended an anti-inflammatory, but though she had some ibuprofen in her purse, she had nothing with which to wash them down. Suddenly, the idea of staying alone overnight held little appeal.
At the guardhouse Devlyn sketched a wave and waited for the huge mechanized metal gate to retract. Soon they were heading up the winding drive that served to isolate the Wolff clan from intruders.
She sighed deeply. “I’m not sure this is a good idea. I don’t want to intrude on your family.”
“They won’t