Dark Fires (5 page)

8

There was no way he could sleep.

It was late that night, and the Earl of Dragmore reigned alone in his library. One solitary lamp lighted the room from the corner of his desk. He stood in the shadows by the stone hearth, brooding, whiskey in hand. From outside, a hound howled, the sound aching with its loneliness.

Nick downed the whiskey abruptly.

He moved to refill his glass. He could not shake Jane’s image from his mind. He was angry because of it. He did not want to be haunted by her angelic face and innocent eyes; he did not want to see that fragile smile as she hovered uncertainly in the doorway of the dining room, waiting, he knew, for him to invite her in. He hadn’t, and now he felt like the lowest kind of heel. He had seen her face crumble before she turned and left. He had also seen her slender shoulders proudly squared.

And he had seen a lot more.

He had seen the way she looked at him in the hallway. Christ! He knew she had no idea of how she’d been looking at him—and where. Her perusal had been intent, mesmerized—and undeniably sensual. She had stared at his chest, his belly, his groin. With a sharp, indrawn breath, Nick reached down and tugged at his breeches to ease his discomfort.

Shit.

This was all he needed. To be the object of a schoolgirl’s crush. She
was
a schoolgirl. She was seventeen. Only seventeen.

And old enough to be married.

“She’s my goddamn ward,” he cried aloud, frustration welling. His grip on the snifter in his hand tightened. It shattered. Cursing, he let the shards fall to the floor. He ignored the cuts, the burning of the whiskey. He poured himself another drink.

He would have to put an end to her going without a crinoline. He was too experienced; he easily could imagine her endless legs beneath her skirts when he saw her thus. Now he vividly imagined them, white, slender, impossibly long. And fantasizing made him recall her soft, graceful hands—sliding down her hip beneath his regard. Did she know what she was doing, touching herself like that, so sensuously? Did her skin flame beneath her own touch? Was she inviting him to touch her like that? Did she touch herself when she was alone—while thinking of him?

He was going to explode.

He drank more whiskey.

It eased his groin. He knew damn well she wasn’t teasing him, had no idea of her effect on his libido, knew she didn’t masturbate and fantasize about him. He debated fucking Molly, or any one of a dozen passable maids in his employ, but decided the self-inflicted torture was welcome—he deserved it for his depravity. He must find her a husband immediately—and get her the hell out of his house and his life.

By the time he had finished the glass of whiskey, he had an overwhelming urge to see his son. Just thinking of Chad, upstairs, asleep, well fed, well cared for, and loved, brought a rushing warmth to his insides, something the whiskey could never achieve. In case Chad awakened, Nick wrapped his hand in a linen handkerchief, so as not to scare him with the blood. He silently moved upstairs, ignored her closed bedroom door, quelled the thoughts that tried to rise, and entered his son’s room.

Chad lay sleeping on his belly, his face turned toward the door, his breathing deep and even. Nick didn’t want to awaken him, but the need to touch his son was uncontrollable. He dropped to his knees beside the boy’s bed and gently let his hand slip into the child’s hair. Chad stirred, sighed contentedly, but did not awaken.

Nick felt the anguish then.

He was here, where he did not belong, and he had no choice. But this, all of this, all of Drag-more and all of Clarendon, would one day be Chad’s. This made his own life bearable. This made it worth it.

Yet the fantasy was incipient but tangible. He pictured Chad in dungarees and bare feet running in the Texas woods. He pictured him running with his cousins, his sister Storm’s children. He pictured him sitting on his grandfather’s knee, being regaled by tales of Apaches and Texas Rangers and grizzly bears, in the house where he had been raised. By the man who had raised him.

Raised him, loved him, lied to him.

Shit, Nick thought, caressing his son. The anguish was worse now. Well, regardless of what Derek and his mother had done (he just couldn’t think, much less say,
my
parents
anymore), one day Chad would have to go to Texas to visit. It was his heritage as much as Dragmore.

And just the thought of taking his son to Texas brought something hot and hard to his chest. Something choking. It had been so long since he’d been home. What would he say to Derek? Derek, to this day, did not know he knew the truth. Nick had seen him only once since he had found out, in late ′65, right after the War Between the States, while he was on his way to England and his new life.

He didn’t want to think about any of it. Not about the blood and stench, the death and dying, of the war. He didn’t want to think about the day he’d left, ridden off to fight—which was also the day he’d learned the truth about his father. It was amazing. He’d just made love to his girlfriend, the daughter of a neighboring rancher, a kind of farewell. And then she told him. Told him his mother’d been abducted by a Comanchero who’d raped her. Told him how his father—not his real father, but Derek—had hunted the Comanchero— his real father—down and killed him. Miranda had been married to Derek for only a short time before the raid; she had been mourning her first husband. Her marriage to Derek had been in name only, hastily conducted a few weeks after her husband’s death because of an oath made between the two men, who were blood brothers. Derek had sworn to take care of her. When she gave birth to Nick nine months after her abduction, there was no question that the father was the Comanchero.

Shocked, Nick asked her how she knew, but even in the midst of the trauma, he recognized the truth. Because the truth was in his appearance. He was different from them all. His father was a golden man like his own Nordic father; so were his brother and sister. His mother had sable hair and ivory skin. He, Nick, had blue-black hair and dark copper skin.

His girlfriend told him it was no secret.

So everyone in the territory knew the truth— except him.

Yet he thought of all the times he’d been alone with Derek, hunting, on the trail, riding cattle, in the fields. He thought of the warmth and camaraderie they’d shared. Derek had cared for him. That he didn’t doubt, not now, when the trauma of the truth had receded, replaced with some degree of objectivity. But love him as a son? Impossible—because he wasn’t his son, he would never be his son, he was the bastard of a raping, murdering half-breed Comanchero.

Nick looked at his son with fierce, fierce love. He did not believe in God. But if he had, he would have said thanks that his son would never go through what he had gone through. That Chad had been young enough when Patricia had run away not to even notice, and young enough to get over her death without a tear.

The earl got up and left, closing the door gently. In the hallway his eyes found her door of their own will. He stared at it. In his emotional state he didn’t give a damn if he thought improper thoughts. She was in bed, asleep. Probably naked except for a thin nightgown. He imagined her breasts, small, too small, but perfect. He imagined her hair, thick and untamed and coming to her hips. He imagined her naked, her hair streaming down over her bare body, over her breasts, tangling between her legs. He walked downstairs.

And in his bed he lay on his stomach, hard and throbbing against the mattress. His chest was tight, his breathing heavy. What if he went to her door, opened it, watched her? What if she awakened, smiled sleepily? What if he went to her, and she was naked, her body white and pink, nipples small and tight, and he touched her, touched her breasts, firm and hard, touched her waist, slid his hand between her legs and touched her … He was moving his hips restlessly against the mattress. With a cry, he ground his thick erection into the bed, rhythmically, fiercely. He was alive and desperate, his rigid organ pulsating … Nick grabbed the headboard. He gasped as his seed erupted, warm and wet on his belly, again and again.

He lay very still. He’d nearly broken the headboard. Damn. Worse. He was truly depraved. He was fantasizing about a schoolgirl. About his ward. He was depraved.

He was just like his father, the Comanchero Chavez.

9

Jane was nervous.

She told herself that she was being foolish, acting like the child he thought she was, but that did not soothe her emotions. She hovered in the hallway between the kitchen and the dining room. He was coming; she had seen him riding across the field toward the stables. It was just past two.

She had overslept and missed him that morning and had taken her breakfast alone downstairs. She had no intention of doing so again. She had skipped lunch at noon in the nursery on purpose. In the dining room two places were set. Molly had been wide-eyed when Jane had ordered her to do so, but Thomas had hidden a smile. Now Jane hugged her arms to her body and waited. She never heard his footsteps—he was as soundless as a tomcat. But she heard the doors drifting shut. And then she heard him. “What the hell!”

Before Jane could move, he opened the door to the back corridor where she stood. It was hard to say whom was more surprised when they came face to face, she or the earl. She tried not to appear cowed. She let her arms fall to her sides.

“Is Amelia here?” he asked.

Who was Amelia? “I do not know,” Jane answered breathlessly.

His gaze pinned her, then slid, quickly, below her neck. He turned abruptly away with a muttered curse and wheeled back into the dining room. She heard his chair grating against the floor as he yanked it out. Swallowing, Jane entered as gracefully as possible. She sat down at the place on his right.

His eyes went wide. He recovered; they narrowed. He said nothing. He just stared.

Jane reached for the little silver bell. Her hand, damn it, shook. She rang it. He was still staring. His presence was overwhelming. Jane felt tiny— worse, like the child he thought her to be. She was starting to regret what she had done. And still he said nothing.

Thomas entered, followed by two servants with platters of food. He seemed to be hiding another smile upon his bland face. “Wine, my lady?”

Jane opened her mouth.

The earl’s hand rudely covered her glass. Jane noted that it was clean—unlike the rest of his work-dampened body. “She is not my lady,” he said distinctly.

Thomas was unperturbed, turning to the earl. “My lord?”

The earl gazed at Jane, hard. “Am I to understand,” he said sarcastically, “that you seek the pleasure of my company?”

Jane blushed. For some awful reason, the cat had her tongue.

He laughed. He removed his hand and nodded at Thomas, who filled his glass with a rich French Bordeaux.

Jane peeped at him. He was being served a lamb stew and vegetables, and he was ignoring her—or he was actually oblivious to her presence. She could not believe she had succeeded in attaining her goal so easily. And then, as he started to eat, not waiting for her to be served, she felt indignation rise. She couldn’t help it. She said, “My lord?”

He paused, fork raised, barely looking at her.

“Usually one waits for everyone to be served before starting one’s meal.”

A small, ugly smile started, and then he resumed eating. “This is your choice,” he said. “Not mine.”

She gasped.

With his fork, he pointed at her, still smiling. “But don’t you dare to criticize me.”

He ate savagely, not sparing her another glance. Jane wanted to cry. She understood, then, that he hated her. How had she not realized this before? And now, to sit at his table and be ignored after being so put-down…. This was worse than being ordered away. She numbly thanked the two servants who had served her and stuck her fork into a piece of lamb. She would not cry. He was the one at fault, not she. He was rude and insufferable. He was the boor. He even smelled. It was the height of boorishness.

“Shit,” the earl said with a growl, throwing down his silverware. “If you start crying …” He stared at her grimly.

Jane blinked at him fiercely. She would not shed a single tear in front of this man, not ever. He scowled and reached for the decanter of wine. He filled her glass, without looking at her.

Jane knew then, astonished, that she had just won some small kind of victory—that he was, in some brutish way, trying to atone for his earlier rudeness. It didn’t matter that she did not want any wine, what mattered was what he had done. Her appetite returned. She began eating slowly. He wolfed his meal. The silence was complete, not companionable, the tension thick and awkward, but Jane was no longer completely dismayed. Yet she had learned her lesson, and she did not dare to attempt to converse with him. Other than peeping at him cautiously a few times, she concentrated on her food with determination.

The earl threw down his linen napkin and, hands braced on the table, started to lunge to his feet. Jane froze, her fork in midair. The earl froze too. The tension increased, as taut as a high wire between them. Then he sat back down, hard. He toyed with his wineglass, watching her.

Jane would have been devastated if he had been rude enough to leave her alone at the table to finish eating. She realized, keenly, that he was not trying to be rude; rather he had never learned etiquette or else had lived alone for so long he was sorely out of practice. So this seemed another small victory, and she smiled sweetly. “If you wish, you may leave.”

“That’s right.” He leaned back lazily. “I can do any damn thing I wish.”

She decided she had eaten enough, and she carefully placed her knife and fork side by side. He had left his utensils sprawled out, as if he were in the midst of dining. His gaze narrowed. “Your manners are so proper.”

Jane looked at him. “My mother was a lady.”

He had the grace not to respond, but she sensed he was skeptical of that statement. “Finished?”

She nodded. He bolted. With long, hard strides he left the room.

Jane collapsed in her chair, exhausted and trembling, not sure whether to be exultant or insulted. The earl was not just difficult, he was frightening. But … he wasn’t hopeless.

The manor’s foyer was vast. It was as large as half the parsonage. Jane surveyed it with satisfaction. The black-and-white marble floors gleamed. There was not a speck of dust on the tawny stone prayer table, and the ornate mirror above shone. The scrolled Tudor chairs and the rest of the furniture, mostly Regency, ringing the perimeter of the entryway glistened with polish and wax. She watched two servants cleaning the windows that were on the second-story level. They stood atop ladders, rubbing the panes industriously with soapy water.

The hounds were baying. Jane moved to the open drapes and saw a hired curricle come up the drive. The earl had a visitor. She smiled, for the timing was almost perfect. At least the foyer was clean the way it should be. She turned to alert Thomas, but he must have surmised the situation from the howling hounds, for he appeared to open the front door. “Madame.” He bowed slightly.

A woman with vivid auburn hair, resplendent in emerald-green silk and black cording, swept in, parasol dangling from her hand. “Hullo, Thomas. Is the earl in the library?”

She was smiling. Jane had a bad feeling. The woman was gorgeous, big breasted, full hipped, with a tiny waist. She was near the earl’s age. She did not wait for an answer, but started across the foyer. Then she stopped, seeing Jane.

Jane was instantly aware of the contrast between them. She felt like an ugly orphan next to this elegant, sophisticated woman. She regretted the braid she wore, the dirt on her nose, the dust on her hands, and her plain blue dress. Mostly she wished desperately that she was not seventeen and skinny. She had a terrible feeling.

“Hello,” the woman said slowly, no longer smiling. Her glance swept Jane from head to toe. It was a calculating, critical perusal. “Are you a new maid?”

“I am Jane Barclay,” Jane said coldly.

“How nice,” the redhead murmured, and then she was gone, gliding down the corridor toward the library, her red heels clicking on the stone floors. Jane watched, with growing dismay, as she knocked once upon the door then let herself in without waiting for a response. She felt a strange urge to cry, but would not. Hopefully, desperately, she waited for the earl’s anger to erupt. But it never did.

She looked at Thomas glumly. “W-who is t-that?”

He gave her a kind, commiserating look.
“That
is the Lady Amelia Harrowby. The widow Harrowby,” he added significantly.

“Oh” was all Jane could manage, her chest choking her.

She blinked up at the servants, who were watching her strangely, and with compassion, it seemed. She forced a smile for their sakes. “Please finish the windows, and thank you very much.” The last words broke.

Jane didn’t go upstairs to her room. She slowly walked down the corridor toward the library. The door was still open. She paused there, looking in.

Lady Harrowby sat on the earl’s desk, while he sat behind it. She was leaning over, her breasts practically falling out of her bodice. Her face was close to his, and she was smiling, laughing actually. Jane really couldn’t see the earl’s face, but it looked like it was stony. Then the widow took a finger and traced it over his cheekbone, down to his jaw, and up to his mouth.

Jane must have made a sound, because Lady Harrowby jumped off of the desk and the earl leapt to his feet. His gaze found Jane’s. She turned and ran, but not before she heard the redhead saying peevishly, “Who is that, darling?”

There was no reply.