Susan Carroll (27 page)

“Then maybe you need to see a doctor. I have
heard being bled a little helps when a man falls into these black
humors.”

Mandell gave a snort of mirthless laughter.
“I'd have to slit my damned throat.”

Briggs paled with alarm. “Oh, no, pray, my
lord. Don't even jest about such a thing.”

As Mandell reached to refill his glass,
Briggs pleaded, “I think your lordship has had too much to drink.
You have consumed enough to have felled an ordinary man.”

“But then I am not an ordinary man, Briggs. I
am the marquis of Mandell.”

Mandell splashed some whiskey into the glass
and started to raise it in a mocking salute when he was distracted
by a sudden commotion. The buxom blond serving wench stumbled into
Briggs's chair, emitting a shrill protest as she fled to escape the
customer who had been harassing her.

“No, I won't be after going upstairs with
you. You are a deal too rough, sir”

“I'll get a lot rougher, you little bitch, if
you don't do as I say.”

The familiar snarling accent grated upon
Mandell's ear. He looked up slowly, focusing on the girl's
tormentor. Staggering across the room in pursuit was Lucien
Fairhaven, flushed, sweating, and stinking of gin. Mandell had not
seen Fairhaven since he had permitted the man to stalk out of
Brooks's unscathed. He remembered regretting that Sir Lucien
escaped so lightly for all the misery he had caused Anne. A regret
that Mandell was surprised to realize still gnawed at him.

Fairhaven closed in upon the blond girl,
seizing her wrist and causing her to cry out, “Ow, let me go.”

Her predicament evoked not the slightest
ripple of interest in the crowded taproom. Sir Lucien dealt the
wench a hard slap and started dragging her toward the stairs.

“I believe the woman asked you to release
her, Fairhaven,” Mandell called out. It was a slurred imitation of
his usual icy tone, but it had the desired effect.

Lucien twisted around, peering in Mandell's
direction. He was startled enough to let go of the girl. Clutching
her reddened cheek, she whirled and fled up the stairs. Fairhaven
made no effort to follow, his attention now fixed upon Mandell. He
took a wavering step toward the table, his bloodshot eyes dilated
with unmistakable hatred.

“Oh, no!” Mandell heard Briggs moan softly,
but he ignored him, never taking his eyes off Fairhaven's
approach.

“Well, well, the high and mighty Lord Mandell
and his favorite toady.” Lank strands of dirty blond hair tumbled
across Lucien's brow as he leaned across the table. “What brings
you to this part of town, m’lord? Still playing the knight errant.
Championing whores now?”

“Please, Sir Lucien,” Briggs piped up. “We
don't want any trouble,”

“There isn't going to be any trouble,”
Mandell said. He was only vaguely aware of how hard his hands were
gripping the edge of the table. “Sir Lucien is just leaving. He
knows I find his company most distasteful,”

“Leave? The devil I will!” Sir Lucien thumped
his fist against the table, rattling the glasses. “What're you
going to do, Mandell? Threaten me with your glove? Do you think I
am afraid of you?”

“No, you appear to have finally located your
courage. Where was it? At the bottom of a gin bottle?”

Fairhaven's face darkened to an alarming hue,
but to Mandell's surprise, it was his own wrist that Briggs seized
in a restraining grasp.

“Don't, Mandell. Can you not see the fellow
is drunk? He is not worth your trouble.”

Mandell shook himself free. What was Briggs
talking about? He was behaving as though Mandell were the one
likely to lose control. He was no Nick Drummond, possessed of a
volatile temper. Everyone knew that the marquis of Mandell had ice
in his veins.

Sir Lucien straightened, swaggering a little.
“That's right, Mandell. Mustn't create a scandal to disturb the
fair and virtuous Anne. Why aren't you with her tonight? Could it
be that after all your heroic efforts, you couldn't get beneath her
skirts after all?”

The ice in Mandell's veins pierced and
burned. He shoved back from the table. “Don't you even dare to
speak her name, you whoreson dog!”

Sir Lucien's face twisted with an ugly
satisfaction. “Whoreson dog?” he taunted. “A rather common insult
coming from you, my lord. What's happened to the famous cool wits?
Could it be my dear sister-in-law has addled them?”

Mandell's breath quickened. He felt his heart
commence an erratic and savage rhythm. Ignoring Briggs's feeble
attempts to restrain him, he struggled to his feet.

“Mandell!” Briggs's protest was lost in Sir
Lucien's bark of harsh laughter.

“You fool!” Fairhaven smirked at Mandell.
“You could have had her in your power, but you didn't know how to
use it, did you? When I had the child in my possession, I actually
brought the proud Anne to her knees.”

“You what?”

“Didn't she ever tell you? She knelt down to
me in the gutter, begging, crying for the return of her brat. And I
spurned her, left her groveling in the murk where she—”

The rest of Sir Lucien's boast went
unfinished as Mandell's fist smashed against his jaw. Briggs
shrieked as Fairhaven stumbled back, his mouth smeared with blood.
A low growl of rage escaped Sir Lucien and he lunged for
Mandell.

But the ice inside Mandell shattered,
splintering into myriad white-hot shards. Before Sir Lucien could
strike, Mandell leapt upon him, dragging him to the floor of the
tavern to the accompaniment of crashing tables and shattering
glass.

Lucien got off a blow that glanced off
Mandell's cheek. Mandell felt nothing but the force of his own
blind fury. He drew back his fist again and again. Fairhaven's head
snapped back, his features slick with blood.

“Stop! Mandell!” Briggs cried out. “You'll
kill him.” But his frantic plea was all but drowned out by harsher
voices, cheers of encouragement coming from cruel mouths. Greedy
eyes gleamed like the demons of hell.

Lucien went limp, his eyes fluttering closed,
but Mandell could not seem to check the beast that raged within
him. His breath coming in ragged gasps, he drew back his arm to
strike again. But something struck him hard from behind, his world
exploding in a flash of bright light and pain.

Mandell wavered and fell, darkness misting
before his eyes, a darkness that ebbed and flowed, in waves of
agony. He no longer knew where he was or what was happening to him.
Dimly, he realized that he was lying on some hard surface and cold
water was being dashed against his face. He tried to turn away from
it and open his eyes, but the effort proved too great. From a great
distance, he heard a man's voice sobbing.

“Mandell? I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hit you
so hard. Please open your eyes. Say something. Oh, dear God, I've
killed you.”

Killed him? Mandell's pain-fogged mind
latched upon the word. Was he dying then? Surely there was peace to
be found in dying, not these sharp spirals of pain, this terrifying
feeling of being suffocated in the dark.

“You'll be all right,” the voice promised.
“I'll get you out of here. I'll get you to a doctor.”

No. Mandell tried to form the word, but it
would not come. He wanted no doctor. There was only one person he
wanted, needed. The thought pierced his haze of pain with
astonishing clarity.

“Anne,” he whispered. “Take me to Anne.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Anne had no idea what time it was, only that
it was well past midnight. Bathed in the glow of the lamp in the
nursery, she cuddled her daughter in her lap, attempting to lull
Norrie back asleep by reading to her from her favorite book of
myths.

Disturbed by another of her coughing spells,
Norrie had had a restless night. So had Anne, for vastly different
reasons. Exhausted as she was, she felt grateful for this
opportunity to snuggle Norrie close, to breathe in the sweet scent
of her silky curls. Seated in the old wing chair, watching the fire
in the grate burn low, it restored some sense of normalcy to her
world. Heaven knew Anne needed that after what had happened last
night.

She was tormented by the memory of struggling
to get dressed in the darkness of Mandell's bedchamber, bewildered
by his abrupt change of heart, even more bewildered by her own. Of
a sudden, it had been Mandell remembering the proprieties,
commanding her to leave him when she had been more than willing to
stay. The recollection left her feeling confused and shamed, angry
with him and with herself.

“Mama.” Norrie tugged at the sleeve of Anne's
dressing gown, reclaiming her straying thoughts. “You stopped
reading again.”

“What? I’m sorry, my love.” Anne deposited a
kiss upon her daughter's smooth brow and glanced down the page with
a frustrated sigh, trying to relocate her place in the text.

“And because Lady Persephone had eaten the
seeds of the pomegranate,” Anne read, “she was ever after obliged
to spend six months of the year in Hade’s underground kingdom.”

“Autumn and winter,” Norrie murmured against
Anne’s shoulder. “Do you think it made Lady Persifee sad to stay
with Hades?”

“I really don’t know, Norrie,” Anne said
wearily, attempting to go on with the tale, but Norrie
persisted.

“I don’t think so,” she said. “Perhaps she
didn’t really want to leave the magic underground kingdom forever.
Perhaps she started to like the dark lord a little and that’s why
she ate the seeds.”

“Nonsense, Eleanor.” Anne was disconcerted to
find herself thinking not of Hades, but of Mandell. “I am sure the
lady was merely dreadfully hungry. She could not have wished to
stay with someone that wicked.”

“Why do you think the dark lord behaved so
badly, Mama, forcing Lady Persifee to go away with him?”

Anne grimaced. “I have often wondered the
same thing myself.”

Norrie’s small browed furrowed in frowning
concentration, then she brightened. “He must have been very lonely
in his dark kingdom with no one to love him.”

“That is still no excuse.” Anne brought
herself up short as she remembered what she and Norrie were really
discussing, a man of myth, not one of flesh and blood. If Mandell
so mastered Anne’s thoughts that she was reduced to arguing with a
seven-year-old child, then she was indeed in a wretched state.

She shifted uncomfortably upon the chair, and
when Norrie started to pipe up again, Anne silenced her with a
swift hug. “If you don’t stop interrupting me, Eleanor Rose
Fairhaven, we will be awake reading when the sun comes up and Aunt
Lily will scold us both.”

“Aunt Lily never sees the sun. She’s always
still sleeping.” Norrie giggled, but she subsided, nestling back
against Anne’s shoulder.

Anne managed to get through the rest of the
tale, intoning the words without making much sense of them. When
she had finished she was relieved to see Norrie's eyelids looking
heavier. Casting the book aside, Anne lifted her daughter in her
arms and carried her over to lay her in her small bed.

“But I'm still not sleepy, Mama” Norrie
mumbled as she burrowed deeper against the pillow. She groped about
as though feeling for something, a movement that Anne had already
anticipated. She bent down, retrieved Lady Persifee from where the
doll had slipped to the carpet, and placed the bedraggled object
within Norrie's reach.

The child gathered the doll to her with a
contented sigh. By the time Anne had tucked the coverlet about her
and kissed her cheek, Norrie's eyes were already closed. The child
appeared likely to rest quietly now, untroubled by that persistent
cough. Anne was glad that Lily's doctor was scheduled to visit in
the morning.

Straightening, she rubbed the small of her
back. It was more than time that she retired to her own bedchamber
and got some sleep herself. As she moved to make sure the fire on
the hearth was properly banked, Anne noticed that it had begun to
rain again. The storm had ended hours ago, but the droplets
continued to beat out a monotonous tattoo upon the nursery window.
The sound was dreary and depressing without the majestic clash of
thunder and lightning.

As quiet and dreary as the entire day had
been Anne gave herself a brisk shake, annoyed with her own
unsatisfied thoughts. What was the matter with her? She should be
content. Her little daughter was safely in her care. She had
nothing more to worry about, no dangerous midnight quests to
undertake, no more reckless pledges to redeem, no more marquis
stalking her with wicked intent in his dark eyes.

She ought to be grateful instead of feeling
as restless as a sleeping princess only half awakened by a kiss
because the prince drew back before he had properly finished the
job.

What an absurd thought that was. Mandell was
certainly no fairy-tale prince simply because he had experienced
one fleeting noble impulse. He was an unscrupulous rake who had
been doing his best to seduce her and had nearly succeeded. Why did
she have trouble remembering that fact?

That was as unanswerable as some of Norrie's
wonderings about the myth of Persephone and Hades. Anne caught
herself musing over the child's innocent remark.

Perhaps she started to like the dark lord
a little
.

Like him? Anne frowned. How did one begin to
like a dark menacing stranger when all one knew of him was the
power of his kiss to turn one's veins to molten fire, his merest
touch enough to make one forget all one had ever learned about the
virtues of being a perfect lady?

She could not speak for Persephone, but as
for her own dark lord, Anne could not begin to comprehend him. How
could one man be at once so kind and so cruel, so mockingly aloof
and so passionately tender?

Mandell could have taken her at once last
night. Anne had expected him to do so. What she had never expected
was such patience, such effort to stir her own desires. He had even
tried to make her feel beautiful in his arms. And he had come so
close.