Forbidden Fire (7 page)

“I do apologize, but your logic simply eludes me.”

“I wouldn't expect you to—I wouldn't expect you to behave as a husband.”

“Ah. And how does a husband behave?” he queried her.

She pushed away from the desk and strode with agitation across the room. Then she realized that she was facing his bed and she swung around, her cheeks flaming. He was taunting her. He knew darned well what she was saying.

“Mr. Tremayne, we could form a marriage in name only. I could receive my inheritance, and in turn—” She paused.

“Yes, well, it's that part I am interested in hearing about,” he said dryly.

“I could protect you.”

“You could protect me?”

“From unwanted advances.”

He burst into laughter. All the grimness left his mouth, and a sizzling sparkle touched his eyes. If nothing else, she had amused him.

“You're being very rude,” she informed him coolly.

“Oh! Do forgive me, Miss Ahearn. It's just that, though I do not wish to marry again, there are certain, er, advances that I rather welcome, if you know what I mean.”

Her cheeks flamed and she willed herself to betray no emotion, no anger, no embarrassment. She tried her very best to stare at him with nothing more than scorn and to speak as softly as she could. “You would be more than welcome to your diversions, Mr. Tremayne. That is my whole point. You could wander at will, and be plagued by no woman, for you would already have a wife. A wife to whom you owed nothing at all, a wife who would stay out of your way, I might add, and in her gratitude, make your life as comfortable as possible.”

“Comfortable?”

She gritted her teeth. “I make a very good hostess for business dinners and all social occasions,” she assured him primly.

“Oh, I'm sure that you do!” he said.

She had no further arguments for the moment, and he was still staring at her without replying.

“Well?” she prompted him irritably.

“Well?”

“Have you an answer?”

“I'm thinking,” he told her.

“You at least knew something of this arrangement!” she reminded him with a flare of anger.

“But I knew nothing about acquiring a wife,” he murmured. “And if I am about to find myself with this wonderful hostess and entertainer who will boldly stand guard against all mamas who wish their daughters married, I am still afraid that I might have a few requirements of my new paragon of virtue.”

“Such as?”

“Well,” he drawled softly, his blue gaze sweeping over her with a lazy regard, “I would like her to be just that—a paragon of virtue.”

Marissa gasped, infuriated. “Just as you are a paragon of virtue, Mr. Tremayne.”

“Sorry. I am afraid that it is still required much more of the female in this day and age.”

She swirled around, heading for the door. He watched her without protest. Her fingers closed over the knob.

She turned, quivering with anger, but very aware that she was the one playing for the high stakes—he really did not want a wife.

“What do you want out of me?” she demanded.

“The truth.”

“Why?”

“You're asking me to marry you,” he said harshly. “I want to know something about my future wife.”

“Such as?”

“What of your young lover? I'll have no man trailing after you to my home. And I'll be damned if I'll ever give any woman my good name for her to make a cuckold of me by playing at any game with another.” She realized then that he was amused, but he was also angry. Very angry. The open shirt displayed the pulse against his throat, and muscles bulged on his naked chest as his arms almost imperceptibly tightened over one another.

She leaned against the door and moistened her lips. Her eyes met his.

“I have never had a lover, Mr. Tremayne,” she said flatly.

“You admitted it when I spoke of your father's fears,” he reminded her.

“No.” Her eyes fell from his, and she shook her head. “I admitted that I knew a man, but …” She forced her eyes to meet his. To offer the honesty that was still a lie. “He was never my—lover.”

He rose from the desk and walked to the door. She was tempted to throw it open and run.

She held her ground. His arms came around her as bars on either side of her head, his hands flat against the panels of the door. “I wonder if you are telling the truth. I wonder if you are capable of telling the truth.”

“What difference would it make?” she cried out passionately. “I want no real marriage. We could put it in writing, we could—”

“No!” He seemed to thunder out the word, sharp and savage. “You are not listening, my lady. I'll not have my name abused. And I'll have no contract for pretense written down upon paper. And neither will I make any damned agreements about what a marriage will or will not be. One a hostess, the other the provider of an income.”

“It is my own income!”

“Not without me.”

Oh, please! she thought. She could not face him much longer without screaming. His sudden change from laughter to passion and anger was unnerving. She could not bear it.

“I have told you the truth, I swear it!” she cried suddenly. “There is no man, there has never been a man. I plan to play no games, I just wish to live with a certain dignity—”

“And what, pray tell,” he demanded savagely, “if you should discover yourself falling in love again elsewhere?”

“I will not fall in love elsewhere.”

“Ah, how assured you are for one so young!”

“Well, you are certain you've no wish to marry again, and you are not yet decrepit!”

“Ah, but I have known love, my lady, and there's the difference,” he said, his tone suddenly, deceptively soft.

“Please—”

“What are these charities of yours?”

“They are personal.”

“Perhaps a young man is included in them?”

“No!”

He pushed away from the door, turned and paced across the room. A moment later he pulled out the chair at his desk and sank into it. “How strange. I don't see you being such an incredible philanthropist, Marissa.”

“I told you—”

“Spell it out!”

“I—I have a maid. No, she is no longer really my maid. But she wishes to be married. They are both young and poor and her health is failing, and I want to bring them both with me. She has been a dear friend all her life. And there is a small mining town I wish to help—”

“And certain miners?” he inquired politely.

“I tell you, sir, that my intentions are entirely honorable!”

“Are they?” he mused, and he sat at the desk, idly tapping his fingers against the wood as he stared at her. He threw up his hands. “Lady, you did not want a guardian, and yet you would accept a husband!”

“I have explained—”

“Ah, yes, well then, let me explain.” He leaned forward, folding his hands upon the table, his eyes seeming to impale her as his temper rose with his every word. “I am not an easy man, Miss Ahearn.”

“You said that you are often gone—”

“But when I am home, I can be a tyrant. I am demanding and exacting, and I have a horrible temper.”

“Indeed? What a shock!” she said with wide eyes and sweetly dripping sarcasm.

“You are asking for this,” he reminded her.

“Pray, go on, Mr. Tremayne.”

“Bear in mind that I've no wish to marry.”

“So you've informed me.”

“That I shall go my own way.”

“That, sir, will give me the greatest pleasure.”

A long finger was suddenly pointed in her direction. “While you, my dear, will be that wonderful paragon you have promised. And you will be at my beck and call for whatever social amenities I might require.”

Her heart was hammering. It was a devil's bargain, made in hell. But she had already known that she would pay nearly any price to make this work.

She had paid part of the price, for the lie she was already living was agonizing.

“You make it sound like torture,” she murmured, her lashes falling over her eyes.

“On the contrary, I do not beat or abuse women, Marissa.” The harshness in his voice had suddenly faded, and she opened her eyes to his once again. “I have merely tried to show you your folly.”

Again she moistened her lips to speak. “I came here, sir, with my mind set.”

“There are times,” he said quietly, “when you may think I resent you just because we are married.”

She frowned. “I don't understand—”

“Never mind. There is no way to explain.” He rose suddenly. “And I make no promises, no agreements. That is understood?”

She wasn't sure; she really wasn't sure what he meant at all, but she nodded, wondering if he was going to agree, or if this was all a charade to humiliate her.

He stared at her hard. Then he muttered a harsh, “Damn you, girl!”

And he reached for a handsome overcoat, and touched her at last, taking her arm to draw her away from the door.

“Where are you going?” she cried.

He turned to her. Once again, his blue eyes seemed to impale her beneath the rakish fall of the black lock upon his forehead. “I am going for a registrar, my lady. If we're going to do this thing, we'll do it now, and be done with it all. I've got a license. All we need is a registrar.”

The door swung shut in his wake. Marissa gasped. Her knees were beginning to buckle and she braced herself with her hands against the door.

What had she done?

He had agreed. He had agreed too swiftly! He had given her no time to plot and plan, to find a way to make it all false or to make it all real.

But he had agreed. He was coming back with a registrar, and she must do something, she must …

Marry him.

A coldness settled upon her, and the words kept repeating hauntingly in her mind. Help me, God! she thought. But surely God would not help a liar playing such a deception as she played.

There was no choice, she assured herself. No choice at all. She had won, she had come here wanting this, and now, surprisingly, she had gained what she wanted.

But very soon, she knew, he would come to the room with a registrar. And she would stand there and vow to be his wife. His wife. Irrevocably tied to the man.

She started to tremble and closed her eyes. She didn't dare keep thinking, and yet she could not stop. What would happen if she were found out? The knot was tangling more viciously with every turn.…

Maybe he didn't mean to go through with it. Perhaps he had gone out to order a tray of tea and crumpets. He did not really mean to marry her; he just wanted to agree to give her the chance to realize what she was saying, to back out of it herself.

Which she could do. If she and Mary were caught perpetrating this deception it would be disaster.

He was letting her escape.

Perhaps she did block out her thoughts, for it seemed that he had barely left before he was back. At his side was a stocky little man with wispy gray hair. Behind the man were two women—a small, pert maid in a white cap and apron and an older woman, also in a cap and apron.

“My dear,” Ian said, still appearing very much the rake, his shirt opened at the neck, his coat haphazardly over his shoulders and a night's stubble upon his cheeks, “this is Mr. Blackstone, the registrar. And this is Meg, and she will witness the ceremony for me. And this is Lucy, who will also witness the marriage. We
do
want it to be legal.”

He was not letting her escape.

Marissa tried to smile. She needed to be gracious, to extend her hand to the two women. She couldn't speak. She had barely managed to move away from the doorway at their return. She stared at Ian with wide eyes.

His mouth was set in a grim line, and his eyes were hard upon hers. He said nothing to her, but she knew what he was thinking. She had started this. And now he would finish it.

He would give her exactly what she wanted.

“It will be just a minute here now,” Mr. Blackstone was saying, setting his briefcase upon the desk. “I need the proper legal documents and my seal. Mr. Tremayne?”

Ian went to the desk and produced the license.

“Oh, this is so exciting!” Meg said.

“Thrilling,” Ian agreed wryly.

“Did you wish to, er, tidy up a bit, sir?” Mr. Blackstone asked Ian.

Ian rubbed his cheeks. He offered Marissa a smile that didn't touch the fire in his eyes. “No, thank you, Mr. Blackstone. My wife will be seeing this Yankee mug every morning of her life from here on out. She doesn't mind it a bit, do you, my dear?”

Marissa smiled at last, as sweetly as she could manage. She touched his stubbled cheek and assured Mr. Blackstone. “I can't tell you just how charming I find Mr. Tremayne to be. Kind, solicitous—absolutely charming. With or without the stubble. It's such a noble face.”

“She adores me,” Ian told Mr. Blackstone.

Meg sighed. Lucy giggled. Mr. Blackstone seemed uneasy.

Ian snatched Marissa's hand and drew her to his side. “Can we get on with this?”

“Yes, yes, of course. My papers are now all in order. I think …”

He started to speak the words. Slowly, very slowly. Marissa did not hear them. She felt Ian Tremayne's hand locked around hers, large, warm, powerful.

She was building prison walls around herself, she realized. This was very real. She would have to travel across the globe with him. Live in his house. Answer to his beck and call.

“And do you, Ian Robert, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife, to have and to hold, to love and to cherish, from this day forward, till death do you part?”

Marissa couldn't breathe. He would protest now. He would say that it had all been a lark and that he hadn't the least intention of marrying her.

“I do,” he said firmly.

“And do you—” The registrar paused for a second, squinting at a paper.