The Dark Lady (16 page)

She could not recall when last they stopped. Hours? A day? In fact, they raced on so cruelly she could not bring herself to ask him to stop. Driven. ’Twas the only word to describe him. His face, which had seemed like that of an angel of mercy at the asylum, had changed into the brutal visage of an avenging beast who would not relent.

He stared out the window, his profile cold. Angry. Eva dug her fingernails into the tops of her thighs to the point of pain. The sharp sensation was welcome; it distracted her. With each rocky groove in the wintery road, her body ached . . . but it was not the ache of simple discomfort. It was the ache of fever, the ache of her body screaming out for its medicine. The shock of every surface of her skin feeling utterly alive.

They had traveled all through the night. Faint blue light insisted on lighting the interior of the coach. The icy fingers of the early sun touched them.

More than anything save laudanum, she needed water. Water to alleviate the sandpaper cruelty of her throat. Water to bathe her itching skin. She let her fingers fidget over her lap. “Ian?”

He didn’t turn from the window. “Yes?”

She licked her lips, shocked to find they were hot, feverish. “I . . . need to stop.”

“No.”

Something, in the middle of the night, had changed. She could not stop the impossible feeling that the moments she had been cared for and not judged were gone now. “Fine, then.”

Only the eternal thunder of horse hooves against icy earth penetrated the silence that commenced.

Until finally he burst out, “I will not stop. Not for you. Not for God. Not for any man.”

In answer, she fingered her laudanum bottle. She lowered her eyes to the jar hidden by her pocket. “Fine, then,” she repeated. She yanked the smooth pottery from her coat, determined to swallow but a drop so the wild, skin-scratching call for peace would stop.

His eyes jerked toward her, the jade green orbs snapping wide. His entire body seemed to enlarge in his sudden rage. “What in the bloody hell are you doing?”

“You give me no comfort and you will not let me rest.” She lifted the bottle and gave him a mock salute. “This gives me both. Beautifully.” She lifted her cold fingers to the stopper and pulled it out. The pop echoed and she locked gazes with him, defiant.

“Give it to me,” he commanded.

She laughed, the sound frightening to her own ears. “Stop the coach,” she countered.

He sat so still one might think his muscles had turned to the rock that filled the moors. “Give it to me, Eva.”

“Go to hell,” she retorted, then lifted the bottle.

“God damn you!” he hissed.

And before she could move another inch, he darted over to her and yanked the bottle from her grasp.

She slammed her fist against his shoulder. “Bastard!”

“Addict,” he snapped, holding the bottle far out of reach.

Desperate now that he’d risen to her taunting anger, she bit out, “It’s my bottle.”

He leaned over her, his face but a few breaths away. “It is in my possession. You’ll never have it. Never again.”

His nearness only exacerbated the tingling of her skin. If only she could come out of her fleshy envelope. If only she could find some release . . . And the only release she knew, he’d just denied her.

She’d pushed too far in a war she could not win, and panic grabbed her guts. But she needed what was in his hand. Needed it to still the voracious animal tearing at her insides. “Please, Ian. Give it me.”

“Never.”

“Please!” she pleaded, hating the hungry note in her own impassioned voice.

“Never!” he roared.

They sat in silence, staring at each other like two dogs eyeing the other before the attack. Until finally she couldn’t bear her hateful feel of her demanding flesh, and the drive to find release. This was compulsion. There was no other word for how she felt. That damn bottle compelled her to act as mad as Thomas accused her of being.

“Ian,” she began. Her stomach tightened with what had to be self-revulsion. But it didn’t feel like that. It felt . . . She stared at his beautiful face, then let her gaze travel to his broad shoulders. Shoulders that had shielded
her from danger . . . This thing now urging her felt like anticipation.

She bit her lower lip, slowing her suddenly uneven breathing. She’d made bargains before. Not of a sexual nature, but she’d seen the other girls do it. It always worked to their temporary advantage. And Ian was a man. A strong, undoubtedly virile man. She allowed her eyes to soften with the promise of pleasure. His pleasure. To her shock, it did not take much for her to feel the liquid heat of wanting when she looked on him. “I . . . I will do anything.”

She closed her eyes as a wave of intense want hit her. For him? For her laudanum? Slowly, oh so slowly, she placed her hand on his broad thigh and, amazedly, her body thrilled to the hardness of his leg. Would he be just as hard farther up his thigh? She let her hand trail up his leg toward his hip, seeking answer. She glanced down to her fingers. It would be so easy to believe it was someone else’s hand. But it wasn’t, and she liked seeing it there. She flicked her gaze back to his, her breath growing ragged. “Anything.”

Ian stared at her, completely still. At his lack of response, she dared herself to venture farther. To give in to the sudden interest of her own body. She’d known so little pleasure. But something whispered inside, something that turned her heart and core into molten desire, that Ian could give it to her as no one else had. She slipped her hand up the soft material encasing his muscular thigh until she cupped his length in her hand. To her surprise, he was not aroused. Even so, her hand could not contain him through the fabric.

He’d be large. A size that some women would give anything for. Lovemaking had always been a duty to her; she’d never understood the girls who’d spoken of coupling as bliss and size as an advantage.

In her agitated state, she suddenly realized how much she wanted to understand.

“Please,” she moaned, massaging her fingers over him, feeling him harden. What would it feel like to have that hard length inside her? Would it stroke her to the release she so needed? The only release she’d ever known was in the rolling of laudanum. Would it be better than the opiates?

Cupping him, the heat of his cock caressing her hand, she had no doubt. Yes. Yes, it would be far better because Ian was unlike any other man she knew. And so the pleasure would be unlike any other.

Dark emotions turned his eyes emerald, and for a moment Eva was certain he would catch her up and let her have her release—and her laudanum.

She didn’t dare think how far she had fallen to be on her knees before her childhood friend, the boy she had loved, begging . . . for pleasure . . . begging for release.

Ian’s free hand, large and rough, came to rest on her fingers. He pressed her harder against his cock and his head dropped back against the cushions. He ground against her palm, a moan of lust escaping his lips.

She had him. And she had her laudanum. Yet it wasn’t relief she felt. She wanted this, even if she didn’t truly understand.

The feel of his hand over hers felt alarmingly right. As did the urge to lean forward and to place her mouth over the fall of his trousers. Her breasts grew tight at the thought, leaving her heavy with the drug of desire. She longed for him to take her in his arms. To devour her. To drive everything away but their bodies, united against the cruel world. With that image in mind, she reached with her free hand to undo the buttons at his front.

Ian’s hand suddenly enfolded hers and jerked it back
with a punishing twist. Regret raked his features as he choked. “What are you doing?”

Shaking his head wildly, he yanked the window down and tossed the bottle of laudanum out into the cold.

The desire that had consumed her died a quick death as a shriek tore from her lips. She scrambled toward the door, ready to fly out of the moving vehicle to retrieve it.

Ian grabbed her face, his fingers pressing into her chin and jaw.

Instantly, she stopped.

Slowly, as slowly as she had dragged her hand up his thigh, he turned her face to his. Gazing down at her, his dark gaze blazing with intensity, he forced her face up until their lips were but an inch apart. “You are not a whore.”

The pain of his words sliced her to the bone. “How can you be sure?”

His entire body tensed as if she had hit him.

Her lips curled back from her teeth, wishing to hurt him now with the impossible desire he’d taken from her. “Do you imagine I was in a nunnery all this time? I learned a number of tricks from the other girls.”

The taut muscles in his face eased, but a shadow tinged his skin. “I don’t give a damn what they taught you.” His thumb caressed her cheek, but he didn’t let go. “I will not let you be a whore of another’s making.”

As the fight diminished from her shaking body, she grimaced. How could she explain that she would whore herself every day if it meant she didn’t have to remember? “It was mine,” she insisted.

He gripped her chin, those hypnotic eyes of his a war of agony and fury. “I don’t care.”

“I risked my life for that bottle!” Eva grabbed his arm with both hands and lurched forward. Her body rocking
harshly against his hard chest. The pressure eased as he wrenched his hand away from her jaw.

“I don’t give a devil’s damn,” he growled, his hands coming up around her back, pulling her against him.

“You don’t—” She sucked in several breaths, her body pressed against the contours of his hard chest and flat stomach. She’d felt nothing in her life like that hard wall of masculinity. “Do you know what happens—?”

“Yes,” he hissed. “You’ll shake and scream and feel as if you are losing your mind.” His capable hands wrapped around her arms and bound her to him. “I have promised myself that I will protect you, even if I have to protect you from yourself.”

Eva gaped at him as it hit her. “You think me pathetic and weak.” Suddenly, an unbidden hot tear slipped down her cheek, followed by another. The first true tears she had known in years as she saw herself in his eyes.

He didn’t pause but worked his fingers into her hair and pulled ever so slightly. “You have no idea what I think.” And then he slanted his lips over hers.

Eva struggled against his powerful embrace, her lips crushed under his. The touch of his mouth to hers shocked her for a moment and then, as tinder struck, her body burned with flame. She’d longed for his kisses once, and now she had them. They were everything she’d ever dreamed and more. So much more.

One of his hands moved to angle her head so that he might deepen the kiss; his other hand splayed over her back, pressing her to him as if he might somehow make them one.

The kiss, harsh and full of need, stole every thought she possessed. Any doubt. Any fear. Gone in a whirlwind of desire and promise. She gasped against him and his tongue delved into her mouth, tasting her.

She moaned softly, marveling at how her body longed to yield itself up to him. Every muscle in her frame was liquid heat, intent on receiving something it barely understood.

But as she held on to him, she felt herself slipping away, losing control. She couldn’t forget. She couldn’t forget that he had denied her just moments before, and that this kiss was not out of love, but rather fear and anger.

With his skill and her wildness, it was so tempting to give in to this kiss, to give in to his will. A jolt of fury overwhelmed the temptation. He had stolen what little control she had, what few choices she had.

She tried to pull away, bucking harshly against his arms. “Enough.”

He only held tighter and his imprisoning embrace spilled ice down her spine. Madly, as if he could somehow reach her with his kiss, he lowered his head to catch her lips again.

Gasping, she twisted her face away, still awed by the pleasure of their kiss. Still tempted to betray herself for the pleasure he could give. But she would never betray herself again, so she snapped, “Are you no better than them?”

Instantly, he pulled his head back, staring down at her with enraged astonishment.

“Remember, I am no whore,” she whispered, the words harsh against her closing throat.

His grasp eased. His eyes filled with a matching self-disgust. “Eva—”

“Not even your whore.”

Slowly, he pressed her shaking body against his until their heartbeats thrummed together. “Forgive me.”

“I’ll forgive you if you give me what I need.”

Ian pushed her hands from him and he threw himself
back to his own seat. His gaze slowly returned to hers with a terrifying clarity. “You shall have nothing that I don’t give you and certainly not laudanum.”

Whatever demon had got hold of him showed its face, turning the sweet young man that she had known into the hardest of men. “I don’t know you anymore. We are not even friends,” she said.

“No. We are not, and I don’t know you, either. Not any longer.” He leaned back, his face shuttering.

Eva gulped at the sudden swelling of her throat. For in the finality and stone-cold intent in his eyes, she knew he didn’t lie. But she was his now, and she was as much a prisoner as she had been in the asylum. Worse, she and Ian were strangers now. Connected by nothing but the past. “Where do you take me?”

“To Blythely Castle.”

So tired now, so beaten, her body felt as if it were sinking into the floor. “Devonshire?”

“Nothing but the hills and sea shall see you until I can prove you are not mad. We will prove to the world you are nothing more than a grieved woman addicted by force,” he declared adamantly. “You aren’t mad. You aren’t.”

Yet, in his voice, she heard it. There in the deep tone of it was the worst thing she had ever known. Doubt.

I
an’s boots hit the ground hard. He relished the feel of frozen earth jarring his bones. Sooty air invaded his nostrils and he flexed his palms, sure he might tear apart the first person he spoke to. He’d called her a whore. She’d acted as a whore. He’d been a bastard of the first order. Christ, he’d forgotten how to be around ladies, and Eva was no ordinary lady. She’d been to hell and was not yet out of it.