The Dark Lady (13 page)

Eva swallowed back bile, then thrust two rigid fingers at Ed’s eyes. He twisted fast and her nails grazed his cheek.

Terror stole over her and, finally, she did what had never worked before.

She screamed. Again and again. Her voice pierced the air like a possessed thing. There was no chance she would make this easy for them.

Ian hit Bickling Lane at a run, and what he saw threw him into instant battle response. Everything slowed and sped at once.

Eva struggled on the ground, fighting like a wild thing. But she was losing. Her dress was ripped to shreds, her pale breasts and long legs exposed to the freezing air.

Rage, unlike any he had ever known, shook him to his core.

As the sensation settled in his heart, an unbelievable stillness took him and he charged forward, spotting a slab of wood on the snow. He bent, clasping it up. His boots ate up the ground so fast the two bastards didn’t see him coming. He wound up the thick piece of wood like a cricket bat and swung.

The edge of it smashed into the short one’s head. The man’s neck jerked to the left and he yelped as blood shot from his mouth.

The tall one vaulted to his feet, whipping a knife from his pocket.

Ian ignored the danger. All he could think of was Eva on the ground. He shot forward, grabbed the man’s wrist, and yanked back. A scream gurgled from his throat as his wrist broke in Ian’s grasp and the knife fell to the ground.

The short one staggered off, clutching his face, his breeches barely about his hips. Ian focused on the tall one and closed the distance between them.

He grabbed the man’s filthy shirt. “You like to hurt women?”

The buggering scum swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “She’s a whore. Look at her.”

“She’s mine,” Ian growled. And then he slammed his fist into the piece of offal’s face. The man collapsed to the ground and Ian fell onto him, punching.

Hands grabbed his shoulders and he whipped around, ready to defend himself.

“Stop!” Eva shouted. “Stop.”

Ian’s arm stopped in midswing. He looked back at the man, limp in his grasp. But he didn’t want to stop. The gut-wrenching fear of seeing Eva completely vulnerable still held him in some invisible prison. He dropped the man to
the ground, his hand still clenched, ready to belt the tosser again.

Eva’s fingers pressed into his shoulder, a light but insistent weight. “You’re going to kill him.”

“I want to.”

The man whimpered.

“No, you don’t.” Eva tugged at his arm. “Let’s go, Ian. Let’s go!”

Bubbling fury still held him in its sway and he had no desire to walk away, but neither did he wish Eva to witness such a scene. At last, he dropped his raised fist. He’d never lost control of himself like that before.

Unable to speak, he lifted his gaze to her. His innards seized up with another dose of rage. God, she was a sight. She tugged at the scraps of fabric that had once been a frock. Her thighs and stomach peered out from the shreds and her left arm was clasped across her bosom.

“We need to leave now,” he said flatly, his body still alive with anger at the beasts who had hurt his Eva. “Can you walk?”

“Yes,” she muttered as she staggered to her discarded coat. She pulled it on, largely hiding the evidence of her assault. Except for her face. She couldn’t hide the bruise blooming on her cheek.

Ian paced away from the crumpled body in the snow, desperate to pull Eva into his arms and make all this disappear. Where were the tears, the shaking that would send any other woman into his arms out of fear and relief? But then it hit him. This was not the first time Eva had fought for her life. He began to reach out to pull her to him, but he stopped, his own heart aching. He couldn’t touch her. Not as he wished. He might never be able to touch her. And it nearly broke him anew not to wrap her in his embrace so that he might feel she was still alive and safe. “You are too damned brave.”

“The only alternative is to lie down and die,” she drawled with a surprising dose of sanguine humor.

He hated how right she was. “Come.”

She gave a barely noticeable nod; then they headed quickly back down the alley, leaving the mess behind. But Ian knew the memory would stay a long time. With both of them.

India
Two years earlier

T
he heat only made Hamilton’s head pound all the harder with the growing recognition that his friendship with Ian was dead. Cradling his aching skull with his hands, he choked back the unavoidable nausea that followed a night of gulping wine and playing too many cards.

And losing far too much coin.

He fisted his hands, pulling at his hair, desperately attempting not to panic. He’d lost nigh on five thousand last night. That in itself was nothing. But the look on Ian’s face?

God, why had his father bought Ian that commission? His father hadn’t trusted him. Hadn’t trusted that, after his death, his son wouldn’t make a complete disgrace of himself. So he’d sent Ian to ensure he behaved.

Hamilton forced himself to stand, readying himself for the routine inspection of his troops. He blinked as his body shook from the adverse effects of too much alcohol. Still, such things were the common lot of soldiers. He enjoyed the long drinking bouts and laughter he and his fellow officers partook of, but what he could no longer tolerate was the self-serving superiority of his once closest friend.

Hamilton held his head up high as he stepped out into the blistering sun and dusty parade ground. He loathed India. He loathed the burning sun, loathed the marauding tribes of men that lurked not far over the borders into Afghanistan, and he loathed the way the natives behaved like animals in need of dominance. But he’d needed to come. To prove to his father, dead or alive, that he was a brave man. Not a failure.

Anger and humiliation burned through Hamilton as he swallowed against his dry throat. Ian thought himself better in so many ways. Ever since they’d gone to Eton, it had begun to show. Ian had pandered to his father’s affections, pushing Hamilton to the side with his accomplishments. And no matter how hard Hamilton had tried to compete, Ian had come out the victor one too many times. Though his father had tried to hide it, it had been inescapable, that slight preference he had held for Ian.

Eventually, his father had stopped trying, giving his affections to Ian alone.

But at least Eva was his. He’d seen the way Ian looked at her. He couldn’t have borne it if she’d thrown him over for Ian. It mattered not that their marriage was hollow, that she would never fully return his love. She belonged to him. Not to Ian.

England
The present

Hours after they arrived at the Norseman’s Arms, Mrs. Marlock’s screams still echoed in Eva’s ears. Who knew the older lady could be so shrill? Then again, it was likely the woman wasn’t presented with such drama on a daily basis.

Steam drifted up from the bath, caressing Eva’s face. Thankfully, she sank lower into the hot water, savoring
its soothing cocoon of warmth. Mrs. Marlock had wanted to fetch a physician, but both Eva and Ian had been firm that it was not necessary.

Bright man that he was, Ian had handed the lady innkeeper a bag of coins, asked for the bath, another tray of food, and linen for bandages if needed.

She didn’t need bandages, thankfully. On the other hand, she was going to ache for days. Beneath the lapping water, she was a veritable map of cuts and bruises, from her scratched knees to her bruised wrists.

Before she’d been left alone with Ian, she’d surreptitiously managed a small drink of laudanum, which had eased her nerves considerably. She no longer felt the driving hunger for it, and the knowledge that it was tucked away in the top drawer waiting for her also eased her mind.

Ian sat on the other side of the room, his back firmly to her. She studied that back. It was the same back she’d known as a girl, but it was different now. When Ian was a boy, he’d been whip thin. Strong and slender. But now? His shoulders had fulfilled the promise of their youthful breadth, and he’d filled out with a shocking display of muscle that shifted under his linen shirt with each patient breath he took. The sometimes unsure, slightly awkward boy was gone, replaced by a man of liquid grace and a strength that could be used to kill . . . or to comfort.

To her dismay she found her own breath had hitched in her throat and the heat of her cheeks did not come from the bath. Was it possible she still found him to be beautiful? She dared not linger on such a thought.

Years earlier, they’d run about half dressed together, no fear of proprieties. Much had changed since then. They weren’t children any longer. But she longed for the carefree ease they had experienced so long ago.

It wasn’t that she wished Ian to see her nude. But everything had changed when they’d chosen duty over love, when he hadn’t told her that Hamilton had shot a horse simply because he’d lost a race to Ian. She’d learned the truth herself from a groom in passing after Ian and Hamilton had gone to India.

And she’d certainly learned that duty was a dangerous companion, treacherous and ready to steal one’s only joys. In the end, she’d failed in a woman’s most important duty. She’d failed to protect her son.

Eva squeezed her eyes shut, then looked back to Ian, wishing he could somehow magically take them back to when they’d been happy.

Still, now she wasn’t sure if she’d ever truly known Ian. She was grateful, of course, but he was so different. So much larger, so much more dangerous . . . even his voice. His voice was now a rich timbre that danced upon her skin in the most subtle of ways.

Spinning her fingers in little circles on the water’s surface, Eva continued to study the back of him. Hoping he wouldn’t notice. Where had the Ian who’d disappeared from Carridan Hall without a backward glance gone? Certainly, he was still there—she saw it in the color of his eyes, the fall of his hair. But what of his virtues? The things that had made her girlish heart surrender to him? The Ian she knew had rescued martens and foxes. He’d tended sick and wounded creatures, stealing her affections with his tenderness to birds and squirrels.

And once, when she’d been no more than eleven, he’d promised to kiss her, if she wished it. It had been so real when she was a little girl, the fear that no one would. Hamilton had refused time and time again to give her the smallest of kisses. It had been a heady fear indeed to think that even her husband should not kiss her.

But Ian had assured her that if no one had stolen a
kiss from her by the ripe age of nineteen, he would do it. She could still see the laughter fading from his face as he’d realized how vital it was to her. Despite how it must have made him feel, knowing she was to be Hamilton’s, he had made the solemn vow to ensure she wouldn’t die unkissed.

They’d been standing in the library, and Eva had hoped he’d kiss her right then, even though they were so young. He hadn’t.

But she had been kissed. At eighteen on the day of her wedding and then in the following nights, when she had once again embraced her duty. Hamilton’s kisses had proven most disappointing. Passionless things that did not live up to her romantic girlhood notions.

If she asked Ian to kiss her now, would he remember his promise? It was difficult to say, since he was nearly unrecognizable as the boy who had given his word.

Now he rescued madwomen and beat men to bloody masses in narrow alleys. God only knew what he’d done in India. She could hardly countenance it, he’d so abhorred violence.

One summer, as they’d played in one of the tenants’ farmyards, Ian had punched Hamilton because he’d had the temerity to feed a salamander to one of the chickens. Eva could still recall how Ian’s face had gone red. Tears, though he’d tried to hide them, had tumbled down his cheeks. She’d attempted to comfort him with a gentle embrace, but even then he didn’t accept comfort, only gave it.

He’d been such a keeper of the innocent and good. She could hardly pair that young man with the man in the alley. The one who had beaten Ed till he was nothing more than ruptured bone and blood.

Not that the man hadn’t deserved it. And it was not as if she was still that girl who raised a hand to no one. Indeed,
sometimes, she could hardly believe she’d ever been so trusting and naive.

“What happened to you?” she asked simply.

He leaned back in his plain high-backed chair, his white shirt playing over hard muscle. “I beg your pardon.”

“Ian?” She waited, hoping he would turn away from the blazing fire of his own accord. When he did not, she demanded, “Look at me.”

When he still didn’t turn, she splashed the water. “Everything improper is beneath the bath, you know.” She didn’t add that he’d virtually seen her naked in the alley in any case.

With what seemed to be Herculean effort, Ian twisted in his chair. And then proceeded to keep his eyes lowered. He crossed his booted feet and rested his strong hands on the armrests. “Yes?”

She snapped her attention down to the steaming water. If she opened this line of questioning, he would no doubt feel the right to inquire about her recent past. Still, she longed to know. About him in the years past. Enough to take the chance. “Tell me, please. About India.”

“About Hamilton?”

Eva closed her eyes, guilt burning inside her. She’d married Hamilton because of duty. Because it had been her guardian’s wish to keep her protected in a dangerous world and because Lord Carin had believed she’d be able to help Hamilton. It was laughable, it had been such a mistake. A mistake that had led to a dry marriage in which she couldn’t fully return her husband’s love. A husband who had been desperate to possess her.

Now she couldn’t truly bring Hamilton’s face to mind. When she closed her eyes, she sometimes saw his dark brown hair and the idea of his confident eyes. But that
was all, really. She opened her eyes and began to shift her position in the tub.

A muscle in her neck clamped. Agonizing pain stabbed her shoulder. Gasping, she slipped down into the water. The hot liquid lapped against her face and she winced as she tried to right herself, but she could not.