The Dark Lady (15 page)

Ian resisted his pressing inclination to shake her. “Thank you. What have you learned?”

“Two men,” she confessed. “Quite rough and unpleasant they are, going from inn to inn looking for a young woman of your lady’s description.” Mrs. Marlock nodded to herself. “Unusually pretty, and odd, short hair. Possibly strange dress. And then there was you. A strong, big man with the airs of a gentleman.”

Mrs. Palmer, no doubt, had sprung into action. She wouldn’t implement official inquiry, even with the death of her guard. She would not wish to have outside sources questioning the manner of her establishment or start probing into the lives of the lords she worked for. But that would not stop her from sending out her less savory associates, associates with no moral qualms about murder or abduction.

Christ, perhaps he should have shot Mrs. Palmer and been done, or at the very least offered up his entire fortune. But now that the damn woman had had enough time to contemplate her position, he very much doubted that anything but Eva’s return would placate her. She’d clearly begun to suspect, if not discovered, Lord Thomas Carin had not been the one to come and free Eva from the madhouse.

“Mrs. Marlock, I cannot tell you how I appreciate your assistance.” His fingers dug into the wooden grain of the door as he realized they had no time to waste. “Send down to the coaching house, and have my man—”

“I’ve done it, sir. The minute Mrs. Levler left. I knew you’d want to be off.”

Ian gave her a grateful look. Despite her ramblings, the woman had sense. Quickly he reached into his pocket and pulled out one of his few remaining guineas. “You are a gem. A true diamond.”

She bobbed a curtsy and gave a quick grin. “Thank you.” Her jovial countenance vanished. “Now we best get your lady dressed and ready for travel. I can tell the poor dear has been through a great trial.”

Ian stepped back and opened the door just wide enough to let the older woman in. He had experience at getting women out of clothes. Getting them in was quite another matter.

When he turned back to the room, Eva was already on her feet, a long piece of white bath linen wrapped about her slight frame.

Water dotted the floor before the pool and the bed-sheet was a damp mass beside the tub.

Mrs. Marlock hurried into the room. “Make haste. We must be away immediately.”

And then he spotted it. The small brown bottle in Eva’s frail hand.

Laudanum. He hadn’t even thought to ask if she’d managed the purchase this morning. His stomach clenched. How could he have forgotten that Eva was no ordinary woman? That she was a woman half possessed?

It should not have surprised him. She wouldn’t be over such an addiction from a kiss, but still . . . It was almost as painful to see her clutch that bottle as to know a half dozen men might be coming after them.

It was all he could do not to cross the room and knock the poison from her hand. He was tempted to shout, “Don’t!” He bit back his demand and strode out into the pitch-dark hall. There was no time for that.

Such duels between them would keep for later.

He only prayed she wouldn’t drown herself in the stuff while being dressed.

He rushed down the stairs and out to the back alley, where the coach would be waiting. The savage thought that all of this was his fault raged through him. Hamilton was the precursor to all this. And while Ian hadn’t driven the blade home, he’d been the instrument that killed his friend. He still felt the hot blood on his hands and the traitorous desire to see justice done.

But there was no turning back now. The dead were dead, and he had enough concerns with the living.

T
he back stair creaked.

Eva hoped that in the future Mrs. Marlock might use a pittance of her funds, perhaps the funds Ian had contributed, to fix it. As it was now, she treaded on light feet, the iron floorboard nails making a horrid racket against the old wood. ’Twasn’t easy descending so carefully. Her limbs were beginning to shake again because she hadn’t taken quite enough laudanum before her dressing. A fine sheen of sweat had broken out over her skin and her stomach was an angry tangle as she forced herself to move.

Every instinct demanded she lift the small vial and drink, but just now she needed her attention as sharp as possible.

She gathered her strength and hurried down the last few stairs. Each breath she drew echoed with an unnatural harshness in her own ears.

She had to get to the coach.

She came out into the windowless back hall. Darkness enveloped her and she blinked, hoping her eyes would adjust quickly. As soon as she was able to make out the gray shapes of furniture she darted past the table and cupboards and started for the back door.

Voices echoed from the hall leading out to the foyer. Eva suddenly felt her feet hesitate. Instead of walking out the door to the coach as she should have done, a
voice inside her demanded she quietly pause at the hallway.

Mr. Marlock’s rich Yorkshire tones rippled through the air. The sound of rough voices echoed back.

There was a long pause and Eva wished she could see what was happening. Then there was the solid chink of a large amount of coin. The sound of a sizable purse being flung down on a table.

The innkeep’s voice eased into a tone of awe. One of the other men laughed.

The saliva dried in Eva’s mouth. She backed away from the hall, bolted around, and scrambled for the door. If only Mr. Marlock had the fortitude of his wife.

Footsteps rumbled in the hall behind her. Heavy, booted steps, making a quick pace. The swaggering stride of men who were no better than dogs.

Eva didn’t look back, even when she reached a trembling hand for the door. She grasped the black iron latch and lifted. The heavy panel resisted her tug. She gritted her teeth and dragged it back. It gave way, opening with a groan. The cold north wind swirled around her, infiltrating her cloak, freezing the sweat upon her skin.

Eva rushed into the deepening night, searching for any sight of Ian.

The coach light swung just a few feet off in the narrow alley. Ian’s silhouette pierced the light like a devil in the dark. His gloved hand stretched out toward her.

She took it with more purpose than she had known in years. Sliding his hands about her waist, he bundled her through the door and dropped her unceremoniously onto the cushioned velvet seat. He shouted something to the driver and then he was beside her, slamming the door.

He didn’t settle back, but instead remained at attention, his hands twin fists on his knees.

Eva seized his forearm, his body angular under her fingertips. “They’ve paid the Marlocks,” she said tightly.

“What?”

“Mr. Marlock. They’ve paid him.” Ian’s face was nothing more than a pale oval in the darkness, but she had to make him understand. “I’m sure of it.”

A muscle worked in his cheek. “How can you know?”

“I heard the chink of coin, and then boot steps were heading for the back kitchen.”

“You’re certain?”

Did he truly not trust her ability to understand what happened around her? “Yes, Ian,” she snapped. “I am certain.”

His doubt seemed to linger between them; then he spoke with intensity. “We must make haste from this damned place.”

She turned her face away from him, confused and angry. Angry that she should have to run and be so afraid. And confused by her feelings.

She wanted nothing more than to hold on to Ian, to feel his touch. For the first time in years, she truly wanted to be caressed. Terrifying though it might be, she was sure she desired it, but only from Ian.

Such treacherous thoughts were dangerous. Whether she wished to say it aloud or not, she was a monster. And whatever faults Ian might have, he deserved far more than a monster . . . or a woman who could never be more than a burden and risk to his very safety.

She pried her fingers from his arm and clenched her shaking hands. She stared out the coach window, watching the night streets race by, swallowing back her returned nausea, unwilling to show him how desperately she needed to reach for her laudanum. It would be so easy to make all this vanish, but not now. Not when he so loathed that particular weakness in her.

Instead, she focused upon the knowledge that another coach followed them. That it might be a mere few hours before she was taken again.

Ian wouldn’t allow that.

She wouldn’t allow that.

Even as her brain felt it was rattling apart, of that she was sure. Nothing would make her go back. She’d rather die.

She couldn’t shake the feeling that she had not known what danger was. Even in the asylum she had been safe. Locked away, half mad, but safe in a fashion. And now that she was free . . .

The danger seemed stronger. For it was no longer simply she who could be damaged. Oh, no. She could now destroy the man who had come to save her.

He had been a damned fool. A fool to be so soft. A fool to think that he could let Eva rest. His stupidity had very nearly got them caught. And that would be the end of everything.

Eva was Thomas’s legal ward. The prick controlled everything about her. Who she could marry, where she could live, how much money she could spend—and when all was said and done no court in the land would let Ian keep her, not until he proved her sane.

The coach rocked on the winter road, jostling them brutally. Ian ground his teeth together, staring out at the outskirts of the city racing by. He couldn’t look at Eva. He’d let lust—lust—seize his reason.

He’d made so many mistakes. He was still making them, allowing his emotions to turn into a riot in his staid body. He sucked in a sharp breath and nearly gagged.

Even inside his pristine coach, he could smell the slums just on the other side of the lacquered wood. No matter how frozen the earth, that smell of rancid death
would prevail if he did not steel his mind and heart to the task.

There was no questioning the resolute truth of it. The softness in his heart had to be hardened. He could no longer be merciful. Not in his need to keep her safe, not in his resolve to destroy those who had brutalized her, and not in his absolute certainty that she would never drink laudanum again.

India
Two years earlier

T
he letter from Eva had been full of descriptions of baby Adam—his firstborn son and heir—and it had, for a moment, filled Hamilton’s heart with such relief that he had been certain that all of the confusion between him and his wife would dissipate. But then, slowly, it had struck him that the letter had not truly been written to him. Though his name was on the parchment, it had been written to Ian. The subtle description of the forest in the fall, the animals going into hibernation, and the state of last spring’s colts were all meant for Ian. Ian cared about such things. Not him. It was as if she were tearing his guts out. Didn’t she understand that? She’d been promised to him since their childhood and God and the law had sealed that promise. She’d never been for that moralizing prig who only played at their friendship now, unwilling to join him in cards, drinking, or the occasional trip to a heathen whore.

Anger pumped through Hamilton as he stared at his men marching over the dusty ground. They had been marching for well over an hour beneath the high sun. And they wouldn’t stop sweltering until he deemed them perfect.

These men needed discipline. They were certainly raised without it, with no care for order, or law, or that
which was right. When he looked at his men, all he could see was the grasping hands of the bazaar sellers, the filth in the streets, and the smell of the latrine in the heat.

These people had no idea how to govern themselves, but, by God, those who came under his rule would come up to snuff, even if a few of them had to pay dearly for his satisfaction. He had learned long ago from his father that anything less than perfect would condemn him to shame. And he wouldn’t let his men shame him.

He’d known enough shame from his father. And just because the old man was dead didn’t relieve Hamilton of the looming hand of hundreds of years of familial expectation.

The straight lines wavered as one man stumbled and fell to the earth. His tan uniform blended into the puff of dust that spiraled up around his body.

Hamilton ground his teeth together as two men pulled the fallen soldier away from the ranks. “Lazy bastard,” he muttered.

Sergeant Ames snapped his attention toward Hamilton and said, “Perhaps the men should cease drill. This heat—”

“I don’t give a damn about the heat,” Hamilton snapped. How hard was it for Ames to understand that he would settle for nothing less than perfection from these heathen dogs? “Drill them harder.” Hamilton turned his gaze to the retreating figures of the men carrying the fallen soldier away. “And have that one flogged.”

Ames’s eyes flared. “Sir, you—you can’t do that.”

Hamilton snorted and raised his brow. “The man is negligent, lazy, and attempting to free himself from duty. As such, he must be punished.”

“But he is not one of us.”

Hamilton paused, then blew out a frustrated breath. “Fine, then. Reduction of pay and extra duties.”

As the drill continued, Hamilton forced himself to stare straight ahead. It was a travesty, the lightness of discipline given to the natives. But it was law. A native could not be flogged, not like the men from British soil.

It mattered not. The man would pay for his indiscretion. After all, there were worse punishments to endure than a mere flogging.

England
The present

The bitter wind whipping across England penetrated every crevice of the coach. The charcoal burner had long ceased to warm Eva and the worsening jittering of her body was not of the cold but of need.

And bloody Ian, who had offered her such comfort not so very long ago, sat at a distance as if finally awakened to the truth. She was a leper. Figuratively if not literally. If he touched her, he too would be caught by the horrid shame contaminating her soul.