Page 90 of The Dravenhearst Brides
29
September 1918
Second for you to remember—the Dravenhearst mash bill is your birthright, Merrick. Your blood runs 73% corn, 17% rye, 10% barley. This was my legacy.
Now it is yours.
—Excerpt, a letter from Richard Dravenhearst’s Last Will & Testament
“Attheriskofruining a perfectly lovely evening…” Margot began, sliding a bare leg over Merrick’s as they lounged in bed. A lit candelabra on his nightstand cast the room in flickering shadow. The tapers were nearly exhausted, short wax stalks that dripped and congealed down brass stems.
“Uh-oh.” Merrick tucked an arm behind his head. “Have I done something wrong?”
Margot was struck dumb by the powerful curve of his biceps. He smelled like bourbon mash tonight—a little yeasty, a little sour, a little sweet…an unexpectedly heady combination. Her lips parted, words forgotten.
“Margot?”
“Yes?” She blinked, forcibly dragging her gaze away from her husband’s muscles.
“You were saying something about ruining our perfectly lovely evening?”
“Yes. Right.” She teased her fingers through the dark hair on his chest, delaying. It really was a most impressive chest, all swells and ridges. Highly distracting.
Merrick groaned. He reached to halt her fingers as they slid lower. “Love, what kind of ruining are you after?”
Against herself, she smiled. It would be so easy to forestall this conversation. She’d done so for more than a week. She leaned in to press her lips to his, but he pulled back.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, his gaze searching. “I can see it in your eyes. What is it?”
She took a deep breath. “Evangeline told me something a few days ago, something Ruth suggested as well. I think we ought to discuss it.”
“Okay.” He shifted his weight, turning to give her his full attention.
“It’s about your mother.”
The tensing of his posture was immediate. Eyes, jaw, shoulders, chest, fingers…little ripcords tightening throughout his body. Pulling down hatches, guarding against the invitation of his mother into their bed.
“Is it possible,” she said, the words coming slow, “she didn’t kill herself?”
“What do you mean?”
“Is it possible her death came at the hands of another, not her own?”
His jaw fell open, closed. “That’s impossible,” he rasped, pulling back from her.
“Is it? Both Ruth and Evangeline said—”
“Said she wasmurdered?” His eyes were as turbulent asa storm.
“They’ve made it clear suicide was not in her nature. And the more I learn of her myself—”
“It wasentirelyin her nature,” he cried. “I can very much promise you that. Spineless.”
Spineless?Margot bristled. Suicide, she knew in her heart, was hardly a spineless act. It was an agonizing one. Merrick was hurting, but even still—
She froze, her own hypocrisy hitting with the force of a runaway cattle train. Why was she so quick to forgive, evendefend, the Dravenhearst women for their agonizing choices…
But she was unable to do the same for her own mother?
