The Dark Lady (10 page)

“I’m Mrs. Marlock—if me husband hasn’t already given our name.” The older woman bustled in, her arms straining at the weight of the tray before her. Her belled calico skirts twitched about her ankles like a cat after a ball. “He said to me, ‘Missus, there’s a young woman upstairs what needs feeding.’ And so I fetched up all my best vittles.”

Mrs. Marlock, apparently completely oblivious to the tension in the room, scooted the tray onto the circular table. It gleamed with dishes fit not for the best of lords, but certainly suitable to those with a hungry appetite.

Eva eyed it with no desire. Hunger was a distant memory that had eluded her for years.

The older woman hesitated, her peppery sausage curls bobbing as she looked from Ian back to Eva. Her smile brightened with emphasized cheer as she clasped her hands in front of her. “Now, my dear Mrs . . . . ? I’m sorry I don’t believe my husband caught the name.”

“Blacktower,” Ian blurted.

“My!” Mrs. Marlock exclaimed. “What an ominous name! Now, Mrs. Blacktower, you look a little worse for wear. May I provide you with a gown or robe? Mr. Marlock said you had no luggage.”

Eva had absolutely no idea what to say. She had
owned but one shabby piece of material in the last two years. Before that, she had filled her closets with more gowns than half the women in Mayfair.

“That would be most kind of you,” Ian said. He beamed at the woman as if she were the most fetching creature he had set his eyes upon. Indeed, he sauntered forward and took the woman’s crinkled hand in his own. “Our luggage was lost. Our footman—new boy, don’t you see—didn’t secure the straps properly. They must be tossed about the moors around Harrogate.”

Mrs. Marlock gasped, then tittered like a schoolgirl as she slipped her hand back from his. “What a disaster! I can recommend some very good shops for you and your wife.” Mrs. Marlock’s mobcap fluffed as she dipped her head slightly to the side. “The items are ready-made, mind you, but—”

“Thank you, madam,” Eva cut in, more sharply than she’d intended. But suddenly exhaustion pulled at her muscles. All she wanted was to lie upon the bed. “My husband shall inquire when we have need.”

Mrs. Marlock smiled as if Eva hadn’t stopped her short. “Certainly.” She gave a quick curtsy. “My boy will be up in a moment to light your fire. Now excuse me and do enjoy.”

The woman left as quickly as she had come and Eva’s shoulders sagged with relief. She had become accustomed to the strange comings and goings of the asylum. Cries in the night. Scratching at the door. The grunts and shouts of the keepers. But this strange exchange of pleasantries mixed with a barely veiled line of questions . . . ’Twas too much.

“You are upset?” Ian asked.

“No.” She eyed the bed, her limbs as heavy as the cobbles on the street below. Every sinew cried out to stretch upon it and close her eyes in forgetfulness. Without
her medicine, however, forgetting was an elusive phantom. “Indeed not. I am merely out of sorts.”

Ian let out a humphing sound. “She is right, however.”

“How so?” she said, because she knew he expected her to say something in response.

He raised a gloved hand and gestured to her loosely clad body. “Your clothes.”

Eva glanced down at the threadbare fabric against her skin for several moments; then a wry smile split her lips. “Shall I not be presented? The court would be most amused by my dress.” She swept a shaky court curtsy. “All I need is a few feathers for my hair.” She waved her hand behind her head, wiggling the fingers in a mockery of ostrich plumes. “Don’t you think?”

Ian’s lips pressed into a hard line. Obviously he was at a loss as to how to react to her gallows humor. Perhaps he’d left his sense of humor in India. He crossed to the table and eyed the items on the tray. One by one, he lifted the lids from the porcelain dishes. Steam puffed up toward his face. “It looks surprisingly appealing. You should eat.”

The scent of sliced bacon and kippers filled the air. Her stomach spasmed with displeasure and she grimaced. “I have no appetite.”

He scowled and picked up a china plate painted with Dutch windmills. “Despite this, you shall eat.”

The very idea was loathsome. Her body ached and the scent of the meat sent her stomach to jumping and twitching, and he had the audacity to suggest she eat? “Food is not what I require.”

As he ladled a helping of fried egg onto a plate, he contradicted, “It is exactly what you require.”

“No.” She fisted her hands, driving her short nails into her palms. A strange snaking fire slid through her. It had been hours since her last dose of medicine. And she wanted it now. No, not wanted . . .
needed.

“I—I—require.” Eva bit down on her lower lip. She knew exactly what she desperately required. Lord, but she was not quite willing to tell him. Not yet. It was shameful enough, letting Ian see her like this. Broken, a shambles of her former self.

She shouldn’t be ashamed. Laudanum in large doses had been prescribed for her by doctors, and then she’d been fed the stuff by Palmer’s keepers. But she was horribly ashamed. And the unpleasant emotions hardly helped the slight shaking of her hands and the perspiration beading her brow.

“Eva,” he said firmly, “you shall eat. Strength comes from such sustenance.”

In pure, irrational defiance, she folded her arms under her breasts. “Will you order me?”

The words were petty, childish, but it was all she could summon considering how tormented she was by the growing nausea. Along with the sickness, an alarming clawing sensation raced along the inside of her skin, demanding she do whatever need be done to secure her next dose.

His face grew stony and his strong fingers on the plate so visibly tightened she was sure it would shatter. “Yes, damn it.” He squared his jaw, screwing down his temper. “I most certainly will if it is in your best interest.”

“I will not be ordered!” she snapped back, hating the sting in her voice. Knowing she was being stubborn, yet unable to stop herself at the frustration and unfulfilled need ruling her. But was it not also a matter of will? Did her will not matter in this? He’d given her freedom, but she hardly seemed free. His to command. His to be protected. Protection was a blessed thing, but not if it came in the guise of a prettier prison, surely?

Ian’s face darkened. His entire body rumbled with bridled tension and he crossed very slowly to her. “If I
have to, I shall feed you myself. For I swear to God, I will not stand by and watch you destroy yourself.”

“I don’t need food—I need medicine,” she hissed. “I’m not well.”

He glared down at her. “That odious swill is the last thing you need.”

Eva blinked and her arms slowly lowered as she studied him. Resolution fixed his features, and as she realized it, panic slid right into her potent need for laudanum. Strengthening the intense demand ruling her.

He couldn’t mean it. He must understand how important laudanum was to her. Even Thomas had understood. The doctors. The keepers, too. It was what kept her from pain as grating as ground glass. “But—”

He pointed a determined finger at her. “You are never going to have that poison again.”

It was tempting to bite the appendage directed at her face. “I am not a child!” she shouted, even as her eyes burned and panic ripped up her innards.

“No, you are not. And I will not humor you like one.” His voice softened and he lowered his accusatory hand. “I cannot allow you to damage yourself further with laudanum.”

Allow? The word struck a chord. It resonated with a fierce sort of warning.
Allow.
He had rescued her from one set of keepers, but Ian clearly couldn’t see that he was setting himself up as another one. One with the mask of mercy on his face. “You can’t be serious.”

“Deadly serious, Eva.”

She let out a frustrated cry. “You can’t. It’s the only thing that gives me peace.”

A muscle in his cheek twitched. “Not anymore. Whatever it takes, you are going to be well. Now,” he said softly, his voice irritatingly rational as he crossed back to
the table. He lifted a porcelain bowl and dished out a helping of porridge. “You will eat this.”

Rage and fear at the uncontrollable need possessing her body sent her trembling. He couldn’t. He couldn’t take her medicine from her. How else would she forget? Even now she was beginning to remember. Remember how Adam had screamed and cried as she’d shoved the basket down beside her feet and whipped up the horse despite the driving rain. Determined to post a letter. Determined to vent her fury at Hamilton’s death. Thomas had told her what happened and it had to be true, for she remembered her hair plastering to her face, her gown sticking to her skin, and Adam wailing in his basket.

Eva shook her head against the memory, then rushed up to Ian. She grabbed the dish of porridge away from him. “You don’t know what is best for me!”

It came free of his hands so quickly the bowl flew from her fingers. The white, pasty food splattered over the wood floor and rug. Panting, she felt the anger inside her begin to dissipate. What had she done?

She had acted like a madwoman. A desperate woman. But how could Ian do this? How could he steal her will away as all the others had done?

Ian stared down at her, silent. Slowly, he turned, his shoulders bowed.

“Ian?” she whispered, wishing she could apologize. Wishing she wasn’t so harried by her need. Wishing that they were both different than the people they had become. She wished so hard she thought her heart might burst from her chest.

A short, harsh sound came from him; then he straightened his shoulders and strode to the door.

Eva wiped a hand over her mouth, dread pooling in her heart. “Where are you going?”

“I need . . . a moment,” he said, so quietly she almost couldn’t hear. “Lock the door. I will return within the hour.”

And then he was gone, the door clicking behind him.

Eva eyed the closed door. She was unsure what had just happened. He had seemed so completely in control . . . but she could have sworn there was a ragged edge to him as he had left.

There was nothing to be done now. She could not take back her rash action. His desire for her to eat was understandable, but she couldn’t bring herself to want to.

Turning back to the silent room, Eva stood still, regret washing over her at her weakness. There were no tears. She’d none to cry. She’d cried them all out.

Slowly, she lifted her fingers to her lips, contemplating the brief, strange feel of his mouth upon her skin. For years she had longed for his kiss, imagining it time and time again. So many times when they’d been young, she’d been sure they were but a breath away from the kiss that would seal their fate. It had never come.

And now, years later, while she was half mad on laudanum and running for her life, he’d kissed her. Just on the forehead, but it had left her shaken, and it had awakened something inside her she’d thought long dead. Every instinct within her had demanded she yank herself from his person. But her heart? Her heart had longed to offer herself up to magnificent strength and to capture that blessed innocence that had long ago abandoned her.

Pain stifled her breath as she recalled the years she’d been so certain she’d never see Ian again. Even though he had written, it had been clear the boy she loved had drifted away, vanished under the revelations of manhood. She shook her head, unable to contemplate the brutal past any longer.

So, instead, she surveyed the room.

He’d left her alone. She swallowed carefully and drew in a slightly shaking breath.

It suddenly occurred to her that she had not actually been alone in years.

She had no idea what to make of it. Always, there had been someone within a foot or two of her. She turned in a slow circle, taking in the luxury of solitude.

Slowly, sounds of the street pierced through the window and worked their way through her distracted thoughts.

“Milk!” a ripe female voice called, puncturing the din. “Fresh milk!”

Another voice joined the cacophony. “Buy some flowers, madam! A penny for a flower!”

“Cabbages!” someone else shouted. “Fresh cabbages!”

The voices lured her back toward the window, but she couldn’t quite bear to look down at the bustle. Once, she’d loved the city. Loved its life and wildness. London had been her favorite place in the world.

Frowning, Eva wound her fingers together. Somehow she had to make Ian understand that she had no desire to truly reenter society of any kind. All she wished to do was hide and pay for her sins. But . . . Eva swallowed and forced herself to step to the window and glance out.

In just the last few moments, dozens of carts laden down with wares had plowed onto the narrow street, pushed by men and women swathed in layers of scarves and wool. All of them selling something or other despite the cold weather.

Once again, she lifted her fingers to the cold glass panes and smiled slightly. It was so beautiful, this hustle-bustle of life.

The sellers lifted their heads, their mouths wide as they shouted as loud as they may.

At one time, she would have gone down to the street in the place of her maids, despite her status, and picked the best flowers. Now? Now she stared through a pane of glass unsure whether she would ever feel the call to venture among them again.

Eva let out a guttural breath, the mist of it icing the pane in frigid feathers, then turned back to the room. She eyed the food again and the spattered porridge on the floor. A part of her, the last wise part, knew she should do as Ian had said and try to eat, but she needed something very different, and no matter how hard she tried to ignore the craving, she was going to need it very soon.

Sweat slipped down her back and she grated her teeth at the physical compulsion of her need. Another woman would have lain down upon the large bed, covered herself with the thick patchwork goose down, and prayed that the feeling would pass. But she understood all too well that wouldn’t happen. In fact, the feeling would worsen until she was a whimpering ball.

It had been one of Mrs. Palmer’s favorite punishments: the abrupt withholding of laudanum, and then its blessed return.