The Dark Lady (8 page)

But when they came, he would be ready.

England
Six years earlier

I
an braced himself up on his stirrups, keeping his chest low, adjusting his weight with the pound of his stallion’s hooves against the hard earth and bright green grass of the country.

He could almost taste the win.

In the distance, the two trees that marked the finish line and a crowd that included Lord Carin had gathered. They hollered and called to him. Ian’s stallion, Dragon, sensed it, too. The white beast charged forward, his stride smooth and perfect, mane whipping through the air. A thrill at the speed and grace pumped deep in Ian’s heart. He let out a laugh at the wild joy working as one with Dragon gave him.

Just behind, perhaps two horse lengths back, Hamilton shouted.

Ian couldn’t quite make out the words his friend was yelling, but the intensity penetrated the thundering of the horses’ gaits. Ian narrowed his eyes against the wind, focused on the finish. Focused on winning. Ahead the crowd waved wildly, their cheers piercing the air. Ian leaned in, his cheek dancing against Dragon’s mane. “Come on, boy,” he urged. “Come on.”

At those soft words the stallion stretched his neck, increased his stride, and tore across the remaining distance to the finish. The shouts of the crowd boomed around him as he raced between the two trees. He caught Lord Carin’s face, beaming, his gray beard framing his broad smile.

On an undignified but triumphant whoop, the old man lifted his top hat and waved it.

Ian pulled gently on the bit and Dragon immediately eased back, coming to a slow walk. Ian patted the stallion on his graceful neck. “Thank you, Dragon.”

“Well done!” Lord Carin shouted, walking up beside the seventeen-hand-high horse. “Well done, son.”

The whole crowd was pressing in to congratulate Ian, and a smile of pure triumph pulled his lips. All that mattered was winning Lord Carin’s approval. “Thank you, sir.”

“You could always outride Hamilton,” boomed Lord Carin. “Foolish boy, to try and best you.”

Ian swallowed, though his heart beat wildly at the praise. He glanced back over his shoulder and spotted Hamilton’s stricken face as his friend reined his horse in. “He rode well,” Ian said.

Lord Carin waved a dismissive hand. “He rides adequately. Doesn’t understand horseflesh. Not like you, my boy.”

Ian froze atop his mount as a snaking feeling of dread grabbed his gut. He hadn’t intended to so thoroughly outride Hamilton.

Red tinged Hamilton’s cheeks, and he seemed to shrink atop his horse. “Are you not proud of me as well, Father?”

Lord Carin hesitated, as if searching for words. “Of course. Of course. But Ian here . . .” His voice trailed off, the meaning clear to all.

The crowd began to slip away, moving toward the manor in chatty groups, eager to partake in the cake and
cider provided. Only a few curious bystanders remained to watch the scene unfolding between the lord, his son, and his ward.

Dragon shifted nervously and Ian stroked the stallion’s neck.

Hamilton’s throat worked, apparently to hold back his emotions, but the beginnings of tears glazed his eyes. “I tried, Father.”

Lord Carin looked away. “ ’Course you did. You always do.”

“And I always fail,” Hamilton said bitterly.

“Don’t,” Ian said, his gloved hands tightening on the reins. “You know—”

“What?” Hamilton snapped. His russet horse danced at Hamilton’s agitation and he gave a sharp yank to his bridle. “That you will always best me? In everything?”

“That’s enough now,” Lord Carin said darkly. “Apologize to Ian.”

Hamilton’s eyes flared. “Apologize?”

Lord Carin drew in a long breath before he said, “It’s not Ian’s fault you’re not as skilled.”

“Father—”

“Enough now. You lost.” Lord Carin’s eyes turned steely. “Don’t disgrace yourself. And wipe those damn tears out of your eyes. To think you’re nearly a man grown.”

“But, Father—”

“I do not wish to hear your excuses. I sometimes wish—”

Hamilton’s lips went white. “Wish what?” His focus whipped to Ian. “That he was your son?”

Lord Carin looked away, the lack of contradiction a powerful reply.

It was what Ian had always longed for. Strove for. He’d sweated blood and tears over the years to prove himself
worthy to be the old man’s son, a real part of the family, but he never thought it would be at the expense of Hamilton’s place.

Hamilton nodded. “I understand.”

Lord Carin’s silence stretched out.

Ian started to speak, but Hamilton swung his horse around, riding back over the small hill in the distance.

Ian looked down at the man he’d respected for so long. “Why?”

Lord Carin shook his head. “There’s something weak in him. Something dangerous. He needs to understand that.”

“But he desperately wants your respect.”

“Then he must earn it. If—”

A pistol shot cracked through the air. Dragon reared, his ears snapping in the direction of the hill.

Ian’s guts twisted. Hamilton. He squeezed his calves against Dragon’s barrel and the animal sped forward. With every beat of his stallion’s hooves, panic thundered through Ian’s veins. Lord Carin had driven his friend too far. He’d known. He’d known how important it was to Hamilton to appear strong in his father’s eyes.

As he mounted the hill, he braced himself, but what he saw seized his breath and burned his eyes despite his resolve.

Hamilton stood sobbing, his arm outstretched and a pistol in his hand, and his own steed lay prone upon the earth. Blood stained the bright green grass about the stallion’s dark mane.

Dragon let out a fierce whinny, his eyes rolling wildly.

“What have you done?” Ian yelled, swinging down off Dragon. He ran to the animal on the ground.

“He failed me.” Hamilton sobbed.

Ian’s hands hovered above the once vibrant, beautiful creature that had graced God’s land with pride. Now its
gaze, framed by soft lashes, was void of life and its sleek body seemed dull of the magic that had warmed its blood. “Failed you?” Ian whispered, a raging ache growing inside him. Why did the innocent always have to pay?

“I needed to win, Ian.”

Ian closed his eyes, feeling the stallion’s flesh cool beneath his palms. It took every bit of strength he had to reply calmly, “I know.”

“But you won.”

The earth seemed to slip beneath him and his stomach lurched. “Yes.”

“You always have to win.”

When Ian looked up, he longed to see the friend who had eased him through his childhood griefs, the third member of the Merry Band. But he saw only a stranger. A man willing to kill an innocent animal to ease his pain. “How could you?” he asked, his throat tightening around the words.

“How could I?” Hamilton echoed. “How could you? You’ve stolen my father’s esteem. As long as you are here, he will never love me,” he railed. “Do you understand?”

“I—You wish me to go?” Ian asked, incredulous. They’d been together, inseparable, since that day he’d come to Carridan Hall ten years before.

Hamilton hesitated, then said, “No. No matter how angry I am, Ian, I could never wish to be separated from you.”

Ian closed his eyes for a moment, then gently rested his forehead along Hamilton’s stallion’s neck. “Go with God, my friend,” he whispered.

Slowly, he stood and pointed at the dead horse. “You know this changes everything.”

“What?”

“This,” he said, pointing from the dead stallion to the pistol in Hamilton’s hand. “You. What you did. It changes
everything. You’re becoming someone I don’t know. Someone I don’t wish to know.”

Hamilton’s eyes flared. “Ian . . .”

“No. I—” Tears stung Ian’s eyes. “We can’t let this happen. To you. To our friendship.”

Hamilton nodded. “I know. I promise.” He swallowed, his face ashen. “I promise I’ll do better. Somehow, I’ll make you and Father proud.”

Ian longed to shout that none of that mattered, that honor mattered. But Hamilton wasn’t listening. His friend was staring off into the distance, tormented by demons that even Ian couldn’t see.

England
The present

They came into the city of York at dawn. The gray-pink light of morning was obscured once again by the heavy white clouds that heralded another batch of snow. Ian glanced out the window, then back at Eva. They were about to arrive at the coaching inn. One of lesser repute, the Norseman’s Arms.

They rattled over icy cobblestones, passing the medieval wall protecting the city from ghostly marauders. The harsh metropolis bore a quiet welcome at such an early hour. Certainly, at the heart of the old city there would be the cry of street hawkers. But here on the outskirts and in this ramshackle bit of town at this hour, one would turn one’s head before raising a hand in greeting.

But even with so few people about, Ian couldn’t deny that Eva was a sight. Any Bow Street Runner would be able to track down a woman of such a description. Only ladies struck by illness had hair shorn to such a degree.

The last thing they needed was undue attention.

The coach rumbled to a halt and his man jumped down. The snick of the carriage steps being unfolded heralded the door’s opening. Ian nudged Eva, but she didn’t move. Heavy sleep had taken her. Although he wished he could let her rest, it would be difficult to make a quiet entrance with her in his arms. He might as well shout their presence from the rooftops.

“Eva,” he prodded.

“Mmm?”

He stroked her arm, savoring the touch. For years, he had not been able to do more than imagine her. Now all he longed to do was drag her into his arms, to hold her, to know she was real. Hunger stirred within him, shocking hunger for the woman who was before him. Just that gentle touch was enough to send his blood pounding. She was his to care for now. His to ensure that nothing ever harmed her again. Carefully, he stroked his fingers along her shoulder, tempted to cup her cheek. He hesitated, unwilling to frighten her. “Wake up.”

“Don’t want . . .”

Gently, Ian drew his cloak back from her slight frame. “We’ve arrived. Wouldn’t you like food?”

She shivered at the cold and her fingers stretched out, searching for her lost blanket.

He glanced to his manservant, Digby, who stood just outside the door. Servants had long been a part of Ian’s life. In India, he’d adjusted to the personal service of a single batman, but now . . . Now he was returning to the ever watchful eyes of an army of servants routine to a man of his station. Digby and the two other liveried servants—their names Ian couldn’t recall—craned their necks, trying to get a glance at Eva from under their matching black-and-gold braided hats. No doubt the men were stunned by the events of the night and this strange addition to Ian’s vehicle.

Only Digby had dismounted; the others kept their respectful distance, one at the back of the coach and the other up on the driver’s seat.

Ian threw a warning glare at Digby, who stood too close for comfort. Immediately the man stepped back.

“Come, Eva,” Ian said more firmly, shaking off the strange sensation of being surrounded by those ready to aid him. Ready to secretly judge, even as they bowed and scraped. “There will be a bed.”

She snuggled deeper into the soft bench.

Christ, it would be so much easier if he could just sweep her into the damn inn. “A bath?” he tried.

Her eyes fluttered. “A what?”

He smiled despite his unease. It was as obvious as day what would please her. “A nice hot bath, Eva, love.”

She uncurled and stretched. “Oh, yes.” But in a moment, the languid movement vanished. Her eyes widened and her indigo gaze darted left to right. “Where—?” She gulped, the color draining from her face. She scrambled to the corner of the coach. “I don’t—”

The intensity of her sudden alarm shocked him. He reached out, but instead of moving toward him, she jerked back.

“What’s happening?” she asked in near panic.

“Remember.” He remained so still it almost pained him. “It’s Ian,” he said, as softly as he would to a spooked horse. “You’re free.”

Her eyes alighted on his face, her countenance as pale as the snow falling outside. The tips of her fingers dug into the seat. Her entire body tensed as if she expected a blow. For several seconds she stared at him; then she drew in a slow breath. “I thought it was a dream. I thought you were a dream.”

“No.”

“There are times when I am never quite sure.” She
pressed her lips together and her gaze darted away from his. “The difference between dreams and reality.”

“It’s only going to get better,” he lied. If anything, the next days would be agony for her. She had not faced the world in two years, and she would have to face it now without laudanum. Within the next twelve hours, she would begin to feel the very serious effects of being without her drug. He’d seen it. Officers and enlisted soldiers alike desperately trying to wean themselves off opiates after prolonged injuries. It was no pleasant thing.

“I—” She peered out the coach; then she sat back, her eyes wide and glassy with fear.

“Eva, we must go in.” Soon they would start to draw attention, not to mention freeze in the morning chill.

She stared at the opening and the street just outside it as if it were a living beast. “I—I understand.” Nodding to herself, she slid forward. “Of course.”

He smiled reassuringly. He took his greatcoat from the seat and placed it across her lap. “Put this on. And—” Reaching behind him, he slipped a long, thick burgundy scarf from a neatly stitched pocket in the coach wall. “We’ll wrap this about your head.”