He needed to do whatever was necessary to wipe that weakness out of his system. There was no room in his life for mercy or tenderness.
Scotland had been a mistake from the very beginning. He knew there was no haven for the likes of him, and the sweet promise of spring in the country had aroused an illusory hope. There was no grace, no beauty, and those who promised it to his weary soul were liars.
Scotland was a lie, a land of rocky soil, harsh climates, and eternal loneliness. Ghislaine was a lie, with her wounded eyes and murderous soul.
He couldn’t weaken. All he had was his chilly, bitter core, which kept him from caring about anyone or anything except his own selfish desires. If he were to weaken, to let even an ounce of compassion, of feeling, break through the armor he’d built around his heart, then everything could enter. All the guilt and regret that he’d denied for so many years. And he would be destroyed.
He couldn’t, wouldn’t let it happen. He’d learned early on that he was the only one he could count on. Ghislaine must have learned that same harsh lesson. She’d expect no mercy from him.
He could feel the darkness close around him once more. The mad Blackthornes. He was more than living up to their reputation.
He rose, setting his brandy down on the table, and headed for her cabin. She’d certainly been the most amazing shade of green and white, but it was always possible she’d recovered quickly. His booted feet were sure on the rolling deck, unencumbered by the brandy he’d drunk or the movement of the ship, and he didn’t bother to knock before opening the door.
She’d definitely been ill. He removed the basin, leaving it in the hall, then returned to stand over her, staring. Her pale face was beaded with a cold sweat, her eyes were closed, and there were purple shadows below them.
She’d slipped into French just before he’d left her in the cabin. He’d avoided that language during the time they spent together, avoided it deliberately. It reminded him too much of the past. The English accent she’d perfected was exactly right, with just a trace of the lower classes to fool the less observant.
But her French was the beautiful, impeccable language of the aristocracy. It reminded him of days gone by, of a youth lost forever, of a way of life destroyed by a class’s greed and a peasantry’s rage.
He smoothed her tangled chestnut hair away from her face, but she didn’t stir, exhausted by the illness and her own emotions. Leaning down, he murmured in her ear, gentle words, love words, in liquid, tender French. Somewhere in her dreams she heard, for a faint, innocent smile curved her mouth, and he shook with the longing to take her, there and then.
He backed away from her, swiftly, before the temptation grew to be too much, and it wasn’t until late that night, well into a bottle of brandy, Tavvy this time drinking with him, that he realized what he’d said to her, the French endearments instinctive and automatic.
He’d told her she was beautiful, his precious child, his angel in a dark night. He’d told her she was his soul, his life and breath, and the heat of his desire.
And, God help him, he’d told her the worst thing of all. He’d told her that he loved her. And even now, he wasn’t quite sure if he’d lied.
The boat was no longer moving. Ghislaine lay face-down in the bunk, scarcely daring to breathe, as she waited for her stomach to settle. She didn’t dare try to sit up. When she had, a few hours earlier, the room had swum in circles around her, and she’d ended in a heap on the floor. That was bad enough. She would have managed to crawl back into the bunk sooner or later, but he’d come in, picked her up in his arms, and placed her back on the bed, murmuring things to her in the language of her youth. She’d almost forgotten the sound of it—Parisian gutter French was very different from the softer, more elegant sounds of the vanished aristocracy. She let herself drift as Blackthorne talked to her, as he tucked the light blanket over her weak, shivering body. She let herself pretend she was fifteen again, and anything was possible.
She didn’t want to open her eyes. If she did, she’d see the pitch and fall of the cabin, and there was absolutely nothing left in her stomach to lose. She had no idea how long she’d been in this torture chamber, but surely they couldn’t have reached the continent already.
It was then that she realized she wasn’t alone in the cabin. Her dulled senses told her that, and as they sharpened, she realized it wasn’t her nemesis. She opened one eye, carefully, and saw the swarthy profile of Nicholas’s valet-cum-henchman sitting in the corner.
“You’re awake, then,” he said. “Time’s a-wasting. If you’re coming with us, you’d best get up.”
Ghislaine didn’t move. “Is there a choice?”
“No. His lordship’s not about to let you go.”
There was something in Taverner’s voice that broke through her dulled misery. She struggled into a sitting position, and while the cabin spun for a moment, it quickly righted itself. “And you think he should,” she said softly.
Taverner nodded. “Aye, I do. You’re nothing but trouble to him, but he’s too blind pigheaded stubborn to realize it. He doesn’t even know what he wants with you, but he’s not reasonable enough to let you go.”
“You could help me.”
Taverner looked at her stonily. “Why would I do that?”
“Because you’re right. I’m nothing but trouble. He’s got the authorities after him for murdering that man…”
“What do you know about it?” Tavvy scoffed. “I was there, Mamzelle. It was a fair fight, not that the late Jason Hargrove wanted it to be. Tried to kill Blackthorne, that he did, after my master deloped. Even so, Blackthorne did his best just to wound him. But the stupid bugger wouldn’t let things be.”
“Very noble of Blackthorne,” Ghislaine said faintly.
“Besides which, we’ve reached the continent. No one’s going to come after him here.”
“Already! How long have we been at sea?”
“You mean how long have you been puking your guts out? Three days. Kind of rough justice, if you know what I mean. Lasted just about as long as Blackthorne’s late indisposition from gastritis.”
“What about his cousin? I thought she was coming after us.” Ghislaine struggled for one tiny straw of hope.
“You think he’s afraid of someone like Lady Ellen?” Taverner scoffed. “Not bloody likely. And it doesn’t matter how many gents she has with her. They won’t catch up with Blackthorne, not if he don’t want them to.”
“Then why do you think he should let me go?” Her brain was too weak to make sense of all this.
“If I knew that, maybe I’d see my way clear to helping you,” Tavvy said in an aggrieved voice. “I just think you’re trouble, and he’d be better off without you. It doesn’t make any sense. I know he hasn’t bedded you, so it can’t have anything to do with that. You’re not his type anyway—he likes ’em buxom and blond and silly. And things that don’t make sense worry me.”
She had to be insane. Or suffering the aftereffects of seasickness, to feel stricken at the thought of Blackthorne preferring large blond ninnies. She should be thanking God that he hadn’t been attracted enough to take her.
“You’d travel a lot lighter without me,” she managed to say in a reasonable voice. “He’s probably just being stubborn. If I simply disappeared on the docks, he might end up being grateful that the decision was taken out of his hands.”
“But it’s not going to be taken out of my hands, my pet,” Blackthorne’s cool, elegant voice responded from the doorway. She hadn’t even realized it was ajar, and Blackthorne had a quiet step. “It’s sweet of you to be concerned, but I find I don’t mind the extra bother of taking you with me. For the present, at least.”
She glanced at him warily. The man who had come to her during the endless ocean voyage, the one who’d put cool cloths on her brow and murmured French endearments, the man who’d gone so far as to hold the basin for her with a singular lack of disgust, had disappeared. In his place was the dark man who could frighten her if she let him. The cool, implacable nemesis who would not listen to reason or pleading. Whatever merciful, gentle traits he might possess had vanished.
And right now she was too weak to fight. Taverner was still slouched in the corner, looking singularly unworried that his master might have overheard his disloyalty, but then, Blackthorne and his valet had an unusual relationship. She wouldn’t give up hope. If Tavvy disapproved of her presence, he might see fit to overlook some aspect of her captivity. All she would need was another moment of inattention, and she’d be gone. And this time he wouldn’t be able to track her down.
“Come along, Ghislaine,” Blackthorne said, moving into the cabin, dwarfing it with his size and elegance, and she felt even shabbier and smaller. But not helpless. Certainly never helpless. He held out a hand; well-shaped, strong. She wasn’t about to take it. He waited patiently, like a spider. “Come along,” he said again. “Dry land awaits you.”
She would have followed the devil himself off the boat. She tried to climb off the bed, ignoring his hand, but Blackthorne wasn’t a man to be ignored. He simply caught her arm in his, pulling her from the bed, and, in truth, she needed his strength as she tried to steady her trembling legs. Only for the moment, she reminded herself. Only until they got off this monstrous boat. She needed to wash her face and hands, to comb her hair, to try to find something decent to wear among Ellen’s oversized gowns. She even needed to put something in her stomach, though the very thought made her shudder. Then she could see about making her escape.
And this time it would be for good.
The low roads of Holland were in better shape than those in England. The hired carriage was a step above Blackthorne’s ramshackle affair, decently sprung with modestly comfortable cushions. There was more room, too, so that Blackthorne’s large, masculine body shouldn’t have been so overwhelming in the less than cramped space. It still was.
He watched her. His eyes never left her face as they crossed the miles. His attitude was lazy, his long legs extended, his arms crossed, the lace cuffs dripping over his hands. His eyes were half-closed, and the faint smile on his narrow mouth was disturbing. It was all Ghislaine could do not to reveal how disturbed she was.
Something had changed. Something had shifted between them, and that change didn’t bode well for her. It seemed as if Blackthorne had come to a decision, and whatever that decision was, it wouldn’t be to her benefit.
She watched him, more covertly than he watched her, and considered the possibilities. She watched, and waited, dreading the moment when the coach would stop for the day. Even the torture of the endless travel was preferable to the uncertainty of what the night would bring.
The hour was much advanced when they finally halted. The inn was a cut above the seedy hostelries they’d frequented in England, and if Ghislaine had been less anxious she would have wondered whether lodging was cheaper on the continent, or whether Blackthorne was no longer worried about the specter of pursuit. It was probably a combination of the two, but as she sat alone in the private chamber, warmer and more spacious than its dark, dank English counterparts, she had other things to worry about.
She paced the room, her arms hugged tightly around her, kicking her overlong skirts out of her way. There was no reason that tonight was going to be different from the other nights they’d spent since Blackthorne had carried her off. As Taverner had pointed out, she was hardly his type of female. There’d been a number of that sort, buxom, blond, and giggly, serving in the taproom—she’d spied two before Taverner had whisked her upstairs. It stood to reason that Blackthorne would find succor in their soft arms.
It stood to reason, but she didn’t believe it. He was coming for her tonight, she knew it. And he knew she knew. The tray of dinner, missing such a rudimentary utensil as a knife, bespoke it.
She’d barely touched a thing. She’d left the glass of wine alone, needing all her wits. She’d kept him away this long. Surely she could dissuade or distract him one more time.
The hours passed. The fire burned low in the hearth, and in the distance she could hear the sound of laughter from the taproom, the giggles floating upward through the thick timbers of the old inn. Her panic had all been for nothing.
She kicked off Ellen’s oversized slippers and climbed up onto the high bed. It was soft, fresh-smelling, with fine linen sheets that would have done justice to Ainsley Hall. The bed was big, and it would be hers alone. She lay back, fully clothed, staring at the shadows on the wall. It wasn’t disappointment she was feeling.
Yes, it was, she admitted, determined to be honest with herself. Not disappointment that he wasn’t going to make her the recipient of his disgusting attentions. But disappointment that the battle, so long in lingering, was still waiting to be joined. Sooner or later the simmering tension between them was going to explode. She’d been prepared for it, prepared to fight. To be left alone was anticlimactic. Of course it was a disappointment.
She heard a shriek of laughter from belowstairs, and her small hands clenched into fists. Thank heaven for willing barmaids, she told herself devoutly, her nails digging into her palms. Thank heaven for one more night of reprieve. Thank heaven for…
The sound of the door to her chamber stopped all notions of enforced thankfulness. Blackthorne strolled in, casual, elegant in the candlelight, and the shadows that played around his face made him look predatory. It was no illusion.
Ghislaine sat up quickly, cursing her timing. If she’d simply held out another ten minutes she would have been ready to face him. Not lying in bed, vulnerable.
He smiled at her. It wasn’t reassuring. That smile was simply a small, mocking curve to his thin lips, and it didn’t reach his eyes. “You don’t mind if I lock the door, do you?” he murmured, doing so without waiting for her assent. “I don’t want us to be disturbed tonight. Not that anyone would be fool enough to do so. I have a certain reputation, even in the back of beyond. Most people would think twice about crossing me.”
She edged back against the head of the bed. There was no light in his face, no tenderness or mercy. He was going to have her, and nothing she could say or do would stop him.