Samantha James (21 page)

“You have!” she cried. “You’ve ruined me. Me, and…and…”

“Who?” he demanded.

A thundering tension split the air.

“Dammit, Fionna!
Who?
”

“My mother,” she said wildly.

He made a sound of scorn. “Your mother is dead.”

And he was killing her with his questions.

“You told me the day we had Sunday dinner together. I’ll never forget the way you looked. So sad. So anguished! And last week in the village you told me again when I asked if you wanted to visit your parents’ graves. By God, we passed the graveyard where they’re buried…”

Realization began to dawn. “My word, Fionna. Are you saying…”

“My mother is not dead,” she said dully. “She’s mad.”

“Mad,” he repeated, as if he still didn’t comprehend.

“Yes.
Yes.
” Her voice was half-choked. “Must you make me say it? Pour it out as if it were noth
ing? As if it were of no consequence to anyone? My mother is mad.”

His eyes widened. “No. Oh, no.”

“Oh, yes!” She broke free of his hold, her hands balling into fists, her lungs burning fire. “Daft in the head, as people like to say.
Touched
in the head. And the place where she is…it’s an asylum. An asylum for the insane.”

Of all the things she might have told him, that was the last thing in the world Aidan expected. And Fionna…

She had exploded. She was half-hysterical. She pounded on his chest. Dry sobs wracked the air.

“Now do you understand? Do you? What would the good people of England do if they knew the truth about F.J. Sparrow? They would be shocked to discover that
he
is really a woman. And then they would say that
she
writes of madness and murder and mayhem because her poor
mother is insane. Was it
she
who made her mother go mad? Or was it her mother who made
her
go mad? That should go over well, shouldn’t it? But I know the truth. It’s my fault she’s mad. I’m the one who made her that way. I am!”

He caught her hands, engulfing them in his own.

“Fionna. Fionna, stop. Stop, love. It’s all right.”

“It’s not all right! It will never be all right.” She was screaming. “I won’t have my mother subjected to ridicule. I won’t be gossiped about. I won’t! It’s up to me to protect her, Aidan. I’m the only one who can protect myself!”

Something had snapped inside her. Strong hands curled around her shoulders. He forced her head against his chest, subduing her, but not hurting her, closing his arm tight around her back until the wildness passed, and she stopped battling him.

And then he wasn’t sure which was worse. Her strength bled dry, he pulled her down on the sofa. She lay against him, as if she’d been beaten and driven into the ground. Feeling her thus was like a clamp around his chest. His heart squeezed as she expelled a dry, jagged sob. She didn’t cry. He wished she would; perhaps it would have been easier for her.

A long while later, she stirred. Aidan brushed his lips against the soft, stray hairs of her temple.

“Fionna,” he said softly, “it’s why you pushed me away, isn’t it? So long and so hard.”

He knew the precise instant tension invaded her body, but she didn’t draw away. Perhaps it was because of the subtle tightening of his embrace—perhaps the not-so-subtle tightening of his arms.

It lasted but a heartbeat. She sighed, rubbing her cheek against his shoulder. There were no barriers between them now. Nothing but raw, naked truth.

“Why did you say it was your fault that your mother is mad?”

“Look at me, Aidan. I-I am a creature of the night. I thrive in the dark. In the night. Look at my novels. I write of darkness and devils and gloom.”

Aidan wasn’t sure he agreed, but he let it go. He paused, a little uncertain how to phrase this.

“Has it always been thus with her?”

She shook her head.

“When did it begin?”

“After my father died.”

“A period of grief then?”

“Yes.” The details emerged haltingly—how her mother withdrew into herself, her refusal to accept that her husband was dead. Fionna’s search for a physician—a hospital—that could treat her. Her feeling of helplessness that she could do nothing to stop her mother’s spiral down into a place where no one could reach her.

“There’s been no improvement at all since you came to London?”

“None,” she said bleakly. “She cries for William—that was my father’s name—to save her. To rescue her. She called me Essie once, her sister. She didn’t know me. Me, her only daughter. And today—” Her voice was so low he had to strain to catch the words. “Today she called me a monster. She-she screamed that I wasn’t to touch her.”

Slowly she sat up. Her beautiful amber eyes spilled over with tears. “That’s how I know it’s my fault. That I’m the one who made her ill. Her mind is all mixed up with monsters and fiends and demons—and me.”

“That doesn’t make you responsible,” Aidan told her quietly.

“I think it does. Oh, I don’t know how to say it other than…somehow, I think I’ve made her a prisoner of my own mind. That somehow it’s all blurred in her own.”

Aidan shook his head. “The mind…I saw things in India, sweet. Men who did not speak. Who cried as if they were infants. That doesn’t mean she’ll never improve, Fionna. Maybe not the same as before, but…better.” How lame that sounded! But he didn’t know how to comfort her.

“You didn’t see her today, Aidan.” Her voice grew lower still. “And it’s not just that.”

“What then?” He propped himself up on an arm.

“I tell myself I must be strong, lest her infirmity
take hold of me too. When I was being followed—Lord, I don’t even know if I was!—I wondered if it was simply my imagination running wild. If it weren’t for that writing on the window, I think I’d wonder if I”—her voice began to wobble—“if I am as mad as my mother.”

“That is nonsense,” he scolded.

A shiver shook her form. Aidan reached for her. “What is it?” he murmured against her cheek.

“It’s not my imagination, Aidan. Someone
did
follow me.”

“I believe you, sweet. I believe you.” He drew back so he could see her. “Who knows about your mother’s state? You, Dr. Colson, and now me. Anyone else?”

“Vicar Tomlinson.”

“Yes,” Aidan said slowly. “I thought so.” He paused, his mind turning. “Who else knows that you are F.J. Sparrow?”

“Only my mother.”

“Not the vicar?”

“No.”

There was a strange look on his face.

Her gaze flew to his. “Aidan, what? What are you thinking?”

His face was shadowed. “I cannot say why, but I just have this feeling that someone else knows you are F.J. Sparrow, and that person may well be your secret admirer. Somehow I think it’s all tied together.”

Fionna sucked in a breath. “He visited my mother,” she said slowly.

“The vicar?”

“Yes. My mother told me several weeks ago. I didn’t believe her, but he mentioned it the other day. I’ve known him for years, Aidan. It’s difficult to believe he would do anything to harm me, or anyone, for that matter. He’s always been kind and generous. Why, he’s the one who helped me with my mother when everyone else turned away.”

“Maybe there’s a reason for that.”

“What?” She frowned.

“Fionna, you are not obtuse. Perhaps there’s a reason he’s been so kind. Perhaps that reason has to do with you.”

His meaning sank in. Her jaw dropped. “But he’s years older than I am,” she objected. “Why, he’s probably my mother’s age!”

“He’d hardly be the first man to fall for a woman far younger, especially one as beautiful as you.”

Fionna flushed with pleasure. Not at his reasoning that Vicar Tomlinson had fallen for her—that was ridiculous. But hearing Aidan say she was beautiful thrilled her to the tips of her toes.

“Do you think he knows you’re F.J. Sparrow?”

“I don’t see how.”

“Nonetheless, I don’t think anyone can be discounted.” His tone was rather grim. “At this point, I still don’t think anyone can be trusted,” he emphasized rather forcefully. “And I don’t want you
going anywhere alone, Fionna. Not to the market. Not anywhere, unless I am with you.”

Mutiny flared in her eyes. He pressed a finger against the softness of her lower lip. “I mean it, Fionna. I don’t like this whole business. I don’t like it at all.”

Fionna was exhausted early the next morning. Aidan had stayed with her. Neither of them slept, nor did they make love; he just held her, and it was enough. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t stop the thoughts from racing through her mind the night through.

And when he left, she finally cried herself to sleep.

When she woke and went to open the bookshop, she found herself glancing nervously out the window every few minutes, or whenever someone passed by. Twice when customers entered, she actually jumped as the bell sounded. She scolded herself soundly. This was ridiculous. It was the middle of the day. Nothing was going to happen.

At noonday, the door opened. The bell jangled. Fionna jumped.

The shade on the door slithered down.

The lock clicked.

In the very center of the shop, Fionna stood stock still. She didn’t move. Good heavens, she couldn’t. Her every sense pricked. Her eyes
huge, she listened to the rhythmic click of boot heels on the wooden floor, footsteps that grew louder with every step.

Behind her now.

Oh, mercy, she couldn’t move. Every muscle was frozen into place.

The book she held tumbled to the floor.

The next thing she knew, hard arms snaked around her waist. She opened her mouth to scream…

…a scream that was swallowed by a hotly familiar mouth. How the blazes he managed to turn her so quickly was surely the feat of a magician.

But that’s how it always was with him.

Magic.

“What—” she managed between heated, hungry kisses “—are you doing here?”

“What I should have done last night.”

Good heavens, they were on the floor. His hands were on the inside of her gown. Already it was half-undone.

“What I’ve regretted not doing all morning.”

Her head fell back. With his teeth he dragged open the ribbon of her chemise, the movement almost feral.

With his hand he fumbled with the opening of his trousers.

He bent over her. His shirt hung open to the waist, torn open by restless, eager hands.
Her drawers were somewhere on the floor behind her head. And her nipple—she sighed in ecstasy—sucking strongly, warm and wet inside his mouth.

A strong hand snared one bare buttock. Fionna emitted a sound of pleasure. Her thighs were open. Damp and waiting. But at the last instant, with another swift move that astounded her, he twisted so that she lay atop him.

“Aidan.” His name was half-stammer, half-plea. “I’m not sure how to…what to…”

Both hands now clamped around her buttocks, he showed her what she needed to know. “There, sweet,” he breathed, “there’s not much to it.”

One single, gliding move found him planted to the hilt inside her. Her eyes flew wide. “I think there is,” she said faintly.

And then there was no stopping it. Her fingers dug into his shoulders, she churned and thrust, while Aidan gasped and plunged. She buried her head against his throat. He arched his head and exploded inside her.

When it was over, Fionna realized she still lay sprawled above him. It had been a heated, hasty—and unquestionably lusty—union.

Still a little appalled at herself, she gazed down at him. He was smiling faintly, a crooked little smile that did funny things to her heart. A little mortified now that it was done, she slid off him. It was Aidan who helped her to her feet, helped
her dress, and tucked the wisp of hair back into place behind one ear. He whispered that he would return later that afternoon.

Fionna was still in awe when she heard the lock open and the shade whisk up once more.

She, Fionna Josephine Hawkes, had just made love in the aisles of her bookshop. Between
A History of the Mongols
and
Victorian Flower Arrangements.

Somehow she’d never be able to think of either the same way again.

The mood was far different later. They ate dinner out, then returned to Fionna’s. Throughout the meal, she had the feeling there was something he wanted to say to her. Once they were in her parlor, she knew what it was.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said abruptly. “I don’t think it’s wise for you to remain in London. I think I should send you to Gleneden.”

Surely she hadn’t heard him right. “I beg your pardon?” she said coolly.

“I’m sending you to Gleneden.”

“You,” she pointed out, her tone dangerously low, “are not sending me anywhere.”

“Yes, Miss Hawkes, I am.”

“I will not leave my mother,” she said very quietly.

“So you refuse?”

“I do.”

His jaw thrust out. “I rather thought you might. Look here, sweet. I told you last night, I don’t like this. Any of this. I dislike leaving you during the day. At night, not knowing if you’re in danger.”

The tension had begun to spin out. Fionna didn’t say a word as he got to his feet and began to pace, finally turning to face her, his feet splayed wide. Her eyes never left him.

“I am not,” Fionna repeated even more quietly, “leaving my mother.”

“If you won’t go to Gleneden, then there is only one way I can protect you—”

Something was rising inside her, something she couldn’t control. Something she couldn’t contain. “You!” she burst out. “How can
you
protect me? How can a man who is half-blind possibly protect me?”

He froze. His eyes drilled into hers, like shards of ice.

Fionna drew a sharp, jagged breath. “Aidan. Aidan, I’m so sorry.” Her voice was a mere breath. “I should never have said that.”

She hadn’t meant to hurt him. Truly she hadn’t. But she knew she had by the terseness of his nod.

“As I was about to say, Fionna, I can protect you much better if you are my wif—”

“Don’t,” she cried. “Don’t say it!”

Her fingers clamped together, straining. She gazed down at her lap. It was the only way she could say what she had to.

“Walk away, Aidan. Walk away now.” She steadied her voice. She steadied her heart. Would he ever know how much this cost her? The conflict inside her was almost unbearable. It was as if she were being ripped apart inside. How unfair life was, she thought bitterly. She loved him. She loved him desperately.

But she could never have him. Never in this world.

Two steps brought him before her. He pulled her up. “Please do me the courtesy of looking at me when we speak.”

She gazed at him through a blur of tears, but her chin climbed high.

“Walk away,” she said again. “Don’t look back. Don’t ever look back.”

His gaze was now burning. Burning into her. Clear to her soul. “Is that what
you
will do, Fionna? Forget we ever met? Forget we were lovers? Forget I was your
first
lover?”

And he would be her only lover, her heart cried out.

“I’m not doing this to spite you. I’m doing it to save you!”

“To save me! How?” he demanded. “Why?”

“Because my mother is mad, Aidan! Because you are
Lord
Aidan McBride. Because your brother is—”

“What the devil does that have to do with anything?”

“It has everything to do with it. Trust me in this, Aidan—”