The Dark Affair (10 page)

“Now, as I was saying, they loved each other with the powers of all the universe, but there was one who was jealous. A wicked old witch of a goddess. Didn’t she then come to the young goddess Etain and offer to make her the most beautiful creature in the world so that her husband might love her all the more?”

“And she agreed,” he put in. “Silly woman.”

She laughed softly. “You’ve it right so far. But to Etain’s shock, ’twas not a beautiful woman she was turned to but a butterfly.”

His eyelids twitched as he envisioned such an absurdity. No. He couldn’t let it pass. “Claptrap.”

“Hush. A butterfly so beautiful, all the colors of the world and heavens shone upon her wings, but then a wicked great storm came to Tir Na Nog and blew her away.” The sounds of Margaret’s skirts shushed against the carpet, accompanied by her soft step as she moved back and forth across the room and slowly around the tub. “Battered here and there, all over the world, she at last came to rest in the land of mortals. Beating her poor wounded wings, she flew into a castle, and what do you know, she landed in a cup of wine.”

“How fortuitous,” he drawled, secretly enjoying the story immensely, especially the way her voice came nearer and then slipped away as she moved.

“And the lady of the house,” she said with considerably more force, “drank the cup and the butterfly.”

“Oh dear.”

“And then the lady became with child.”

“Catholics will believe anything.” It was too much fun goading her. It really was. And given the way his brain was stuttering harder, he was grateful he could get words out in a sentence.

A sound of exasperation filled the room before she said, “This was written considerably before Catholics were even a twinkle in God’s eye. Have you no imagination?”

“Not really.” He clenched his hands to his thighs, pressing his fingers into the muscle. He could make himself stop shaking. He could.

“Just listen.”

In truth, he had no wish to admit that the sound of her voice was hypnotizing him away from his growing alarm. Surely, if he let go and allowed himself to simply listen and not supply his running commentary, he would lose himself in it. He would simply float away in it, no body, no mind, just freedom in sensation. He would stop this hideous lack of physical control, his stomach would ease, and the fever burning his brain would cease.

In short, he would be himself again.

His eyelids lowered, and he tried to force them open, but he couldn’t. As he listened, her voice faded off into a haze of nothingness. And he slipped into the water. Away from everything. Away from the growing recognition that he did need her. If only for now. Just for now.

M
argaret paced slowly as she recalled the story her own mother had told her a hundred times over. She loved the magic of it, the foolishness . . . and the hope.

Despite the fact she’d been around countless naked men, being in Powers’s presence was different. She couldn’t reduce him to just a patient, just a body in need of care, and she was on the verge of being ashamed. He needed her, and her lusting after him wouldn’t help. Not in the slightest.

Just moments ago, she’d had her hands on his flesh and she’d had to fight to keep her mind firmly on a correct track. He was her patient and nothing more. Well, he was her husband, but that was something else entirely at present.

She drew in a slow breath and glanced toward him.

His breathing had slowed, his lids closed.

He looked almost peaceful, but the telltale signs of perspiration dotted his brow. He was battling the loss of his drug.

His lips moved as if he was trying to speak.

“Powers?” she asked carefully.

His arm twitched. A sudden sharp movement.

Involuntary loss of muscle control.

She curled her fingers into fists, knowing it was about to become unpleasant.

The story vanished from her mind and she crossed to his bath. His eyes were open, a strange glaze to them. A glaze she’d seen often enough in other patients leaving morphine.

Suddenly, Powers’s body relaxed and he slipped beneath the water. His silver hair fanned out over the water.

Margaret’s mouth dried as she darted forward. It was too soon for this stage. She’d never thought he would slip into the half sleep this early.

“Help!” she shouted. She shoved her arms into the water, grabbing hold of Powers’s big shoulders. His head bobbed slightly. She tugged, but he was far too heavy. She struggled with all her might, digging her feet into the floor, her hands grabbing.

The footmen who’d been assigned outside the door burst in.

She didn’t look up, just kept her gaze fixed on the man half submerged. “Get him out!”

One of the footman ran forward.

Margaret quickly stepped back, knowing the young man would be far more capable in this than she.

The other footman stopped by the side of the bathtub. Together, the young men seized Powers. They grunted and strained to pull the big man up.

Finally they got Powers’s head above water.

Coughing and sputtering now, Powers blinked. “W-what?”

“You fell asleep,” she said clearly.

Sprawled in the two footmen’s arms, he looked completely vulnerable, a giant fallen. He sucked in a shuddering breath. “How?”

Margaret snapped her hands together, clinging to composure. She then grabbed a long sheet of linen. “Take him to his bed.”

The footmen nodded and started for the bedroom.

Powers didn’t protest. His glazed eyes stared blankly. “W-what’s happening?” he murmured as they struggled to carry him.

Margaret winced. There was a note of boyish fear in Powers’s strong voice. She longed to shout that she’d told him the consequences of abrupt withholding of morphine, but it was of no matter now. So she bit her tongue. “It will be fine, Powers.”

Despite the footmen holding him, she began to towel his body down. Her own frame shook with anger at herself. She never should have agreed to let Powers cut himself off so abruptly from opium, but she couldn’t go back now.

With the discipline she’d won in hospitals during the hell of the Crimea, she forced herself to work methodically. Forced herself to see this man as only pieces of body, of flesh needing tending and repair.

As the footmen slid him back between the covers, his body was limp, his head rolling to the side.

Carefully, she tucked his long silver hair back from his face. “Rest now.”

He blinked, those bleary eyes registering for a brief moment. “Maggie? What is happening?”

She swallowed the burn at the back of her throat. “You’re getting better. The hard way.”

•   •   •

Margaret swung her gaze to the little brown satchel that bore her morphine kit. It would be so easy. So easy to take him out of his wild suffering.

“Jane!” he screamed, his body convulsing off the ornate bed.

She darted forward, her hands bracing against his shoulders, urging him back toward the bed.

This was a particularly bad case. She’d rarely seen such a strong reaction to morphine withdrawal. Perhaps it reflected the darkness of the emotion he’d hidden for so long. And now it was clamoring to get out.

His eyes, wide and feverish, searched for some unseen specter. “Jane?” he called, waiting several seconds before shouting, “Come back,”

“Jane’s safe,” she insisted gently, tempted to stroke his forehead, but unsure if a man of his temperament would take to such comforting even in waking dreams. “She’s completely safe.”

And in a way it was true. His daughter was safe, away from the pain and trials of this world. Even so, it pained her that he was suffering so brutally for the loss of his child.

He swallowed and turned his head toward her, his white-blond hair glowing like burnished silver in the candlelight. “Is she with her nurse?”

Her throat tightened. The hate for herself and his father bubbled up in her so hard she nearly choked. She wanted to help him. Some way. At present, there was nothing she could do except be with him and give him the peace he needed in this moment. Somehow she mustered, “Yes. She’s with her nurse. They’re out in the garden, taking the air.”

He calmed slightly, but he couldn’t stay still, his limbs twitching. “She must eat.”

“Of course, lovely hot milk and perhaps some porridge with jam.”

He grabbed for her hands, his fingers working desperately over hers. “She hasn’t been eating.”

“Ah, and isn’t she a little thing. Little things don’t eat much.” Her eyes stung with the horror of what she was doing, but she knew the dangers of arguing with someone in his state. The worst thing she could do was tell him his daughter was dead. To try to make him believe it. Crueler even than what she was doing now.

He looked away, his face creasing with dark worries. “Don’t understand. She won’t eat . . .”

Margaret frowned. Not eating? The little girl, no more than a baby really, had died in an accident with her mother. There’d been no mention by the earl that the little girl had been sickly.

“Doesn’t play.” His fingers twitched and then pulled away, grabbing fistfuls of the blankets. “Not normal. She needs to play.”

Her thoughts sped quickly. The deluded often ranted during this time of breaking with opium, but sometimes their darkest fears, honest fears, rushed to the surface. Jane had been two years of age when she passed, an age when play and racing about madly was called for. She shook the suspicious thoughts away, focusing on the present. “Ah, we’ll make a fine game for her, shall we?”

“Bring her to me.”

Her stomached coiled at the direct request. Distract him. She had to distract him. “Your house. It sure is a grand one, my lord.”

He blinked and then turned his face to her and smiled gently. “Old. Very old.”

“So I can tell. Who built it?”

His smile broadened, touched by clear pride. “Inigo Jones.”

He thought they were in the country.

But then the smile vanished, replaced by terrified concern. “Where’s Jane? Nurse mustn’t take her down to the lake.”

She’d grown used to it over the years, the quick bounce of thoughts of those either on or easing their way from the drug. So she said, “Of course she won’t.”

“You won’t understand.” He thrashed up, his legs swinging toward the edge of the bed. “Drowned. She can’t—can’t go there.”

Those icy eyes of his were glassy with tears and hallucinations. Dread coiled in her belly. If she couldn’t calm him, he’d be out of hand, big man that he was. She had to assure him everything would be all right. But how did you assure someone the dead were fine? Especially when their brains were muddled and one moment his little girl was alive and the next she’d drowned but still needed to be kept safe.

She reached out and cupped his cheek, a daring but necessary gesture. His skin burned fiery under her cool hand. “And didn’t I give her a talisman to protect her from the water?”

He stilled under her touch. “What?”

Gently, she turned his face so that she might look into his eyes. “You know us Irish. We’ve got the powers of the spirits, and I gave her a spell of protecting.”

His chest pumped up and down like a bellows as he considered her words. “Thank you. Thank you.” He grabbed her hand and kissed it wildly. “You’re too good.”

Tears filled her eyes as she lifted her free hand, stroking his hair back from his face. “’Tis no bother. Now lie back.”

Just when his head touched the pillow, he lurched up. His feet braced against the floor, and he swayed as he pushed himself up. “Must check. Must check myself.”

She strained against him, using the soft touch of her palms instead of force, fearing if they grappled she would be knocked to the floor. “Worry not, my lord.”

“You don’t understand.” He grabbed both her hands in a strong but careful grip.

“Rest,” she soothed. “Rest.”

“No,” he roared. He shoved her as he rushed for the door, and she darted in his way. As he scrambled to get around her, his elbow hit her cheek.

Pain sliced through her face, and she fell to the floor. The layers of gown protected her knees but not her elbows as they rammed into the hardwood by the door. Her vision went dark for a moment and she blinked. “Charles! Dawson!”

Footsteps thundered on the other side of the door, and it jolted open. The two young footmen rushed into the room. They spotted her on the floor and took in Powers’s wild stance. Charles, the younger footman, held up a gloved hand. His brown eyes flashed with indecision as he pled, “My lord. Please go back to bed.”

Powers’s breath came in wild gasps. “I have to—I have to—”

Dawson, his wig askew, edged around the viscount. Each step he took inched him closer.

“Please now, my lord,” Charles begged, his face burning red with upset at the very idea of having to manhandle a viscount.

“You’re keeping her from me,” Powers bit out, his hands curling and uncurling into twin fists that when used in violence would feel like hammers.

“No, Powers,” she eased, trying to stumble to her feet, but the wide hoops made it bloody difficult.

His face contorted with horror. “What have you done to her?”

Whipping his head right to left, he eyed the two men. Even in his state, he was capable of far too much. It took only a moment of indecision before his body tensed. Then he ran, driven by the misplaced but very real need to find his daughter.

Charles grabbed for him, but Powers made a fist and pummeled the lad’s face with it, and the footman dropped to the ground. Dawson took one look at how quickly Charles had gone down and stepped back

“Jane!” Powers yelled as he escaped into the hall.

Fear and fury pounding in her heart, she shoved herself to her feet and propelled herself after him. He had to be stopped before he hurt himself or anyone else. Her lungs protested as she ran in the ridiculously heavy skirts.

She passed the butler, Fellows, and shouted as she ran, “Bring up all the footmen. Now.”

She barely caught his nod and look of shock.

In the distance, she could hear Powers pounding down the stairs. Just as she reached the landing, she spotted him at the foyer, his bare feet sliding over the black-and-white marble.

He looked left and then right, as if suddenly confused by where he was, for surely this looked nothing like his country house.

“Jane?” he called, a more plaintive sound this time.

She caught herself, her breath coming in short jerks as she began a slow descent down the wide, curving stairs. She couldn’t startle him. Not if she wished to get him back up to his room in semi peace.

“My lord?” she tested.

He whirled toward her, his face a mask of confusion. “Where am I?”

She approached slowly, her hand sliding easily down the banister. “You’re in London.”

He nodded slowly. “Of course.” And then his face twisted with irreparable sorrow, and he choked out, “Jane’s dead.”

“Yes,” she said softly. “She is.”

He brought his hands up to his head, cradling it. “Should be in the madhouse.”

In all the years she’d worked with men on the edge, she’d never felt much of anything but determination. At this moment, the hard walls of her heart softened. It was all she could do to stop herself from taking him in her arms. Who had comforted him when his wife and child had died? Who had held his hand? Suddenly, she knew. No one. He had been alone.

He had been alone ever since.

“No, my lord,” she assured. “This will pass.”

Doubt worried his features, as did the feral fear in his eyes that he was no longer in control. “You promise?”

And in that moment he was such a little boy. Completely open and vulnerable, his heart broken, the world a disappointment, and in need of so much more than opium or any sort of doctor’s treatment. He was in need of the one thing she couldn’t give him.

Love.

•   •   •

“We have a very serious dilemma, young woman.”

Powers’s father was a master of manipulation. That was the only explanation for the way he’d hidden this arrogant and controlling streak from her in that first meeting. “Do we, indeed?”

Once again, she’d been called upon the carpet like an errant employee. The study was an oppressive room, made all the more unfortunate by her repeated impressions of its master within its walls.

“What was that business this morning?”

“That, my lord, is the product of extreme removal from opium.”

“Ah. I see.”

“Do you?”

“You are attempting to blame me and my son for your own inadequacies.”

Quite unbidden, her mouth opened into an O of astonishment. “Did you speak with my former employers at all?”

This gave the earl pause. “Of course I did.”

“Then you should already understand that my methods are generally productive. Despite your current doubt, they shall be again.”