Authors: Dark Desires
In the hallway, she saw Johnson leaning negligently against the wall, and then, behind him, she saw Damien. Her heart skittered and stopped, only to resume pounding with an intensity that was almost painful. She stumbled to a halt as she took in the sight of him, his presence lighting the dim corridor. She had not expected this, had not thought to be able to see him again before she left.
Small details caught her notice. He had donned his coat, and carried the basket over one arm. If not for the tension that bracketed his mouth, he would have looked like a gentleman ready to take a lady on a picnic.
Darcie almost laughed at the thought, feeling giddy and drunk at the sight of him. She longed to grab him and drag him from this dull and dingy place, to return him to the sunshine where he belonged. Yes, he belonged on a picnic in the park, not here at Bow Street, being questioned about gruesome crimes.
Ignoring the two men, Damien had eyes only for her.
“Are you well?” His voice was pitched low with concern.
“I am well.” She managed the words, though her brain worked in a dizzying series of conjectures and supposition as she worried over Inspector Trent’s intentions.
“You may leave.”
Darcie jerked back in surprise at the inspector’s words, barely daring to hope that the offer included Damien as well.
“Both of you,” Trent clarified. “I’ve just had word. Constable Soames returned from the home of one Mrs. Zeona Brightly.” He directed his comments to Damien. “Mrs. Brightly confirms your alibi. She insists that you did not leave her side the night that Margaret Bailey was murdered. She recalls you leaving at dawn.”
The recollection came to Darcie then. Mrs. Brightly—the woman with the drunken husband and the gouty great toe. She was a patient that Damien had mentioned by name the night that Darcie had questioned him about his feelings for her. The night they had first made love.
“I see.” His tone was cool. “Then I am no longer under suspicion?”
Inspector Trent smiled sardonically. “Let us just say that you are free to leave at the moment, but I would not like to see you go on an extended tour of the continent at this time.”
Returning the inspector’s tight smile with one of his own, Damien said, “I had no intention of doing so.”
Darcie glanced back and forth between the two men. “An extended tour of the continent?” she asked in confusion.
His eyes fixed on Inspector Trent, Damien explained. “The inspector fears that I will flee the country, and his prime suspect will escape his grasp.”
“No.” Darcie gasped, whirling toward Trent. “You have heard from his patient that he could not have been responsible for the murder. He never left her side.”
The inspector inclined his head. “So she states now. But people are fallible. She may find that she was mistaken after all.” He made a dismissive gesture. “Johnson, see them out.”
“Thank you, but we can find our own way.” Damien took Darcie’s arm and steered her along the corridor.
As they descended the stairs, she glanced behind them, making certain that they were alone.
“He is a vile man,” she whispered.
“He is good at his job,” Damien replied.
In her astonishment over his unexpected response, Darcie stumbled to a halt at the foot of the stairs.
“How can you say that, after what he has put us through?”
Damien smiled, and the lines of tension and fatigue faded. “Us?” he asked.
“Yes, us. I was worried sick.” Not caring who saw, or what anyone thought of her forward behavior, Darcie threw her arms about him and hugged him tight.
“Come on. Let’s go home.” He rested his palm on the small of her back.
John’s eyes widened in surprise as they crossed the public room and moved toward him. Grabbing Damien’s hand, he pumped it with enormous enthusiasm. Damien suffered the attention with aplomb, allowing John his enjoyment of the moment before quietly suggesting that he would welcome a bath and his own bed. Within minutes they were safely ensconced in the carriage.
Cocooned within the privacy of the upholstered interior, Darcie felt suddenly shy. Ducking her head, she cast Damien a sidelong glance. With a low laugh, he slipped one arm beneath her bent knees and the other about her shoulders, and lifted her full onto his lap. He clasped her to him. She could feel the steady rhythm of his heart, its cadence soothing to her.
“You had visitors last night,” she said. “Robbie and Jack.”
Damien caught her chin between his thumb and forefinger and gently tipped her head until he was looking into her eyes.
“They usually come near midnight. How did you know they were there?”
“I followed them.”
His brows drew down in concern. “At midnight? Alone?”
“I thought they were ressurectionists.” Darcie rested her palm against his chest as she felt him tense. “They were quite polite. Truly.”
“Resurrectionists?” Damien set her back on the seat, twisting so he faced her, bracing one hand to steady himself against the rocking of the carriage. “And if they had been? What were you thinking to put yourself in harm’s way?”
“I was thinking that they might have some connection to the murders…”
“So you followed them out, alone, in the middle of the night?” he exclaimed, incredulous. “Where was Grammercy?”
“Sleeping. But they were perfectly polite, and after the initial fear at being grabbed by Robbie—”
Damien made a strangled sound, somewhere between amusement and exasperation.
“He didn’t want me to fall,” she explained. “But Damien, if
they
do not bring you bodies for dissection, where do you get them?”
“My bodies come from the gallows, or the hospital. All perfectly legal, I assure you.”
The high wheels of the carriage dipped into a rut in the road, causing the vehicle to pitch sharply to one side. Darcie snuggled against Damien as he caught her, holding her steady.
“That first night, there was a body in the carriage. Where did he come from?” She tilted her head to look up at him.
He stared at her for a moment, his expression inscrutable, and then he leaned close to whisper, “Did you think I dug him up from a fresh grave? Or perhaps nabbed him straight from the undertaker’s cart?”
“Tell me.” She cuffed him on the shoulder.
As though a dam had been opened, he threw back his head and laughed, and she could hear the tension and strain pouring from him, released by the wave of humor.
“Darcie, my precious.” He pressed a quick kiss to her lips, and then shook his head in exasperation. “He came from the hospital. His heart failed him. I do not snatch people from the grave. I am a respected anatomist. I guest lecture at medical schools throughout Her Majesty’s kingdom.”
A well-respected anatomist. A guest lecturer at medical schools. Darcie opened her mouth to ask him about the stories Dr. Grammercy had told her about Edinburgh and about Damien’s dismissal from the university here, but his expression was so earnest, so open, she had not the heart. It would keep, she thought.
Smiling up at him, she grabbed his hands, drawing them to her lips and pressing a kiss to each one.
Damien pulled her into his embrace once more.
“Do not ever put yourself in such danger again. I could not bear it if harm befell you, if I failed to keep you safe,” he whispered against her hair. “Promise me, my Darcie.”
His words made her heart soar. She closed her eyes, reveling in the feel of him against her and his arms wrapped around her. The coach rocked and swayed, and soon Damien’s grip relaxed, and his breathing became deep and even. Darcie felt him slump back against the seat.
Sitting upright, she gazed at his face, relaxed now in slumber, his sleepless night reflected in the dark crescents beneath his eyes. She touched her lips to his, a butterfly’s soft caress.
Only when she knew he was asleep, that her words were for her ears alone, did she speak. “I promise to love you forever,” she whispered, smoothing an errant lock from his forehead. “But as to keeping me safe…” She thought of Abigail, who had run away and left Darcie with a dying mother and a stepfather who was rapidly losing his grasp on reality as he sank deeper into the drink. She thought of Mama, who died and left her alone, and of Steppy, who promised to keep her safe despite their terrible descent in poverty, but in the end had sold her for a bag of coin. Tears pricked her eyes. “As to keeping me safe, my darling Damien, in that I can trust only myself.”
o0o
“I slept far too long.” Damien lay on his back in the bed, one arm supporting his head, the other wrapped around Darcie’s shoulders.
“You were exhausted. I cannot imagine you slept at all in that horrible little room.” Darcie snuggled closer against his side, enjoying the feel of his warm body next to hers, hugging her happiness about her like a cloak.
They had returned from Bow Street that morning. In a flurry of activity the staff had assembled in a line in the front foyer, faces aglow, smiles barely held in check. Even Poole had looked inordinately pleased, making Darcie feel that she wanted to pinch herself to ensure that she wasn’t imagining the whole of it. An awed expression had crossed Damien’s features as he realized they were showing support. For him. His surprise had been a poignant reminder of how distanced he had become from normal human relationships and expectations.
Damien had taken a moment to greet each person before escorting Darcie up the stairs. Unwilling to leave his side even for a solitary second, she had attended his bath—and eventually ended up in the cast iron tub with him, her dress discarded in an untidy heap on the floor.
Now, from her place beside him on the bed, she glanced at the cooled tub, and smiled at the memory.
“Tomorrow, we shop,” Damien said. “I never wish to see you wear black again. Were I not such a dunderhead, I would have seen to your wardrobe weeks ago.”
Frowning at him in mock anger as she rearranged herself to meet his gaze, Darcie thumped him on the shoulder. “You insult the man I love, sirrah, for he is no dunderhead.”
At her words Damien’s smile flickered, then faded. He stared down at her, his eyes wary, revealing a depth of emotion that made her own nerves quiver and jump. Those eyes seemed to plumb the depths of her soul, and under such close scrutiny, she realized the enormity of the declaration that had popped so blithely from her mouth.
The man I love.
There was a moment of acknowledgment, where each became aware of the transition her lightly voiced statement had caused, for though the words were spoken unthinkingly, the emotion behind them was pure. They both knew it.
She had said those words aloud before. She was certain of it.
Yes,
an insidious voice whispered at the back of her mind,
you declared your love while he slept, while there was no danger that he might disappoint.
For what would she do if he said nothing in return?
Darcie looked away, focusing on the glowing embers in the fireplace. She realized her blunder in voicing aloud that which should have remained in a secret corner of her heart. She had changed everything. A sharp pain twisted in her chest.
A lifetime she had trusted Steppy, and he had sold her for a few coins. She had thought it a lesson well learned, one she would never forget. And now, foolish girl that she was, she had given her love to a man, and trusted him with the knowledge of it.
No, he was not just a man. He was Damien. And she
had
learned those lessons, for in truth, she could not fully trust anyone. The realization made her feel both wise and sad.
Unable to bear the silence, Darcie shifted her legs over the side of the bed and rose, dragging one of the sheets with her.
“The fire, I’ll just—” Her voice broke. She moved across the room on legs that felt rubbery and weak, wrapping the sheet about her as she went. Grabbing the poker, she broke up the coals so energetically that ash rose and blew in all directions. Startled, she jumped back, directly into the solid wall of Damien’s chest. He had come silently behind her.
His warm hands closed over her shoulders and he turned her to face him. Her throat felt tight, as though a choking band was closed around it. She was having trouble drawing breath. Panic swelled and crested within her. He would dissemble now, her cool, controlled, unemotional Damien. He would adroitly hedge his way around the issue and avoid any acknowledgement of her foolish avowal.
Oh, what had she done?
“Darcie, look at me.” Resting the pad of his index finger beneath her chin, he tipped her face up until her eyes met his.
She felt caught, trapped in a noose of her own making.
“What do you fear?” he asked.
She blinked, trying to assimilate his meaning, for he seemed to have made a leap of logic she could not follow. She shook her head. “I don’t understand.”
“I know what it means to be alone, Darcie, to live without love. My sister’s death was my fault.” He pressed a finger to her lips as she opened her mouth to protest. “Mine alone. And with her death, I closed myself off behind the wall of my own self-loathing and blame. Better to stifle every emotion, control every thought, than to suffer the agony of loss. Better to hold the world at arm’s length than to fail on such a catastrophic level. How much easier it was to let myself feel nothing and to let no one have expectations of me, expectations that I would only disappoint.”
He did not love her, would not allow himself to love her. To open himself to love meant opening himself to pain. That she understood only too well.
Pain stabbed her, his words like knives, cutting deep.
“How much easier…” she whispered woodenly. Her hands fisted in the draped material of the sheet, crushing the cloth. She thought she might be sick. He had asked what she feared. There. She had her answer. She feared the pain of losing him, feared the blank wasteland her life would be without him.
Suddenly, he sank to his knees before her, pressing his cheek to her belly. She sucked in a startled breath, reaching one hand to the silken length of his hair, but stopped short of touching him, uncertain.
“I fear losing you.” His softly voiced words were an echo of her own thoughts.