The Lover (29 page)

Even respectable, upstanding citizens.

"If the earl has done what you claim he has done, what makes you so certain he has not already disposed of Miss Aimes's body?" Drake abruptly demanded.

"I know."

He knew exactly what the man had done to her.

"Miss Aimes nursed both her parents. Only a sadistic monster would lure her by writing that her mother's grave had been vandalized."

Michael did not reprove Drake. Nor did he halt him when he opened the cab door and stepped down onto the cobbled street.

Coercion, he realized, could only go so far.

He had forced Drake to the station. He would not be able to force the superintendent to help him.

To help Anne.

He glanced up at the sky, at the glow of the gibbous moon.

It had changed. Two nights earlier he had stood on his balcony in London and stared up at a half-moon.

What would it take to change Drake's mind?

A whore's pride?

Would he beg for Anne?

Had she begged the man?

He threw the cab door open and tossed a florin at the cabby.

Michael blinked at the blaring light inside the station. All sound ceased at his entrance.

Three young, disheveled constables stood around the superintendent, helmet badges shiny, eyes groggy. Drake glanced up at Michael.

"Well?" he asked with acerbic English humor. "Will these be enough? Or should I wake up the entire barracks?"

Michael stilled. The letter inside his pocket burned his chest.

Hope.

"It will do," he said quietly.

Two constables rode as outriders; one drove the police carriage. Michael and Drake rode inside the carriage. The cracked leather seat was hard. Fresh hay lined the floor.

Silently he offered the superintendent his revolver. Equally silent, the superintendent accepted it.

The alternating bursts of light and darkness gave way to an unlighted road. He did not have to look out the window to see the approaching cliffs. Every second, every grinding bump brought him closer to his destination.

He reined in the need to kill the man and concentrated on Anne.

She would need him.

He would not let her down.

"I was the constable on duty when your family was in the accident." The superintendent's voice ruptured the darkness. "It was a shame, them dying that way."

"Yes."

Michael would think about his family later.

"It was an accident," Drake urged gruffly. "I often permitted my grandsons to drive my carriage when we went on outings. It wasn't your fault the carriage went over the cliffs."

"No, it wasn't," Michael agreed tonelessly. He gripped the leather pull by his shoulder. The ascent had started.

The white cliffs of Dover rose three hundred feet high. There had been little left of his parents' carriage when it fell; even less left of their bodies.

The superintendent remained silent for the rest of the journey. The baying of dogs alerted Michael that they approached the estate.

He gritted his teeth.

No dogs had guarded the park twenty-seven years ago. No wrought-iron spikes had topped the twelve foot tall brick wall that enclosed it.

He wondered when the earl had felt it necessary to protect himself. On what year had he started fearing reprisal?

On Michael's fifteenth birthday? Seventeenth? Nineteenth?

The wagon slid to a stop on the gravel.

"Ho, there! You!" an outriding constable shouted. "Open up the gates!"

"Ain't gonna let no one in this time o' th' night."

The gatekeeper's voice was not familiar to Michael. How long had he been employed by the earl? A day? Two days? "What hellhole had the man found him in?

"Ye'll let us in, by God!" The dogs viciously barked and snarled at the threat in the constable's voice. "Leash those dogs and open the friggin' gate!"

"Git on wi' ye or I'll gie ye some buckshot to gnaw on!" shouted the gatekeeper.

"We're constables, ye bleedin' lummox!" The second outriding constable spoke up. "Open the gate or we'll give you time to think about it in goal!"

"Bobbies!" The surprise in the gatekeeper's voice was unfeigned. So was the fear.

No one had anticipated the police's intervention.

Not even the man.

"We got business with the Earl of Granville," the second outriding constable said. "Open up!"

Michael waited, muscles coiled, breath suspended. A horse snorted, pawed the gravel. The wagon lurched, stilled, restively awaited the outcome.

A dog growled, whimpered in submission. Creaking metal announced the gatekeeper's compliance.

He had breached the man's security. All it had required was the sacrifice of one spinster.

Blood pumping, heart pounding, he waited out the lifetime that it took for the carriage to traverse the short distance through the park.

Every second would be an hour to Anne, every passing minute another reason to end it once and for all.

The wheels crunched, slid to a halt. Michael threw the carriage door open and jumped out before the two outriding constables could dismount. Bolting up the tiered concrete steps, he beat on the door that had held him prisoner for two years. He could sense motion behind him, could feel the solid presence of three bodies.

"What the—Hold your pounding, you'll wake the dead!" Light switched on beside the door, something new—the man had invested in electricity. The door swung inward. "What do you—"

Michael did not recognize the tall, gaunt man who stood before him, but he recognized his type.

Creatures like he periodically crawled out of opium dens when their habit superseded their funds. They did not care what job they performed or what crime they committed as long as they were paid in sterling coin.

It was obvious the servant recognized Michael. The burn scars would make him an easily identifiable target.

What little color the tall, gaunt man possessed drained away.

The plan had gone awry.

Michael pushed past him into the great hall. He took the mahogany stairs three at a time. Drake's voice ricocheted after Michael. "You, Jemmy! After him, you fool!"

The corridor at the top of the steps was a black, bottomless abyss.

He did not need light to guide his steps. He knew exactly where Anne was, exactly how many steps it took to get there. A man's steps now rather than those of a boy.

He made the physical adjustments.

The corridor was just as endless.

Behind him booted footsteps rang out on the naked wood floor, faltered. "Sir?"

Anne drew Michael on.

Her laughter, that he had only heard once.

Her passion, that he had sampled too briefly.

She was alive.

He could feel it.

A light snapped on underneath a door. The ring of a handbell penetrated the wood. It was followed by a barking voice: "Frank! Frank, get in here now!"

Michael did not pause.

The last door was locked, as he had known it would be.

He threw his body against it. Once. Twice…

Light sliced through the darkness like a miniature beacon. The constable's bull's eye lantern illuminated mahogany wood, careened off Michael and instantly returned, fully spotlighting him.
Damnit, he was running out of time
.

The door crashed open.

He struck a match.

An electric switch was on the inside of the door. Glaring light momentarily blinded him.

A faint, unmistakable odor overpowered the smell of burning sulfur. It wafted down the flight of narrow attic stairs.

Michael fought the churning of his stomach. He fought the fear the familiar smell triggered. He fought the temptation to burn the house to the ground.

Blowing out the match, he let it drop and raced up the steep steps.

The door at the top was locked.

Suddenly another pair of shoulders added to the force of his. Wood splintered; the attic door shot open.

The stench of death took his breath away.

A beam of light cut across a wooden box, danced back and forth through the blackness, briefly caught another rectangular wooden box in its glare before it disappeared altogether. Light exploded overhead, clearly delineating two coffins.

Michael knew which one Anne inhabited.

He could feel her heartbeat, taste her fear.

The lid was nailed down.

He grabbed the hammer that rested on top of the second coffin.

Endless minutes passed while he pried and pulled and gouged and hammered at the nails. No sound came from inside the coffin.

She wasn't dead—there were ample cracks in the wood to admit oxygen. But there were far worse things than death.

White gloved hands joined his scarred hands; they eased into the spaces between the loosening nails. Together he and the constable ripped the lid off the coffin.

Anne lay inside, eyes closed, cheeks wet with tears. She was silently crying. Glistening dark bodies slithered in the folds of her clothes, her hair.

"Jesus God."

For a second Michael thought he had spoken out loud. He felt the warmth of a body crowding his left side.

It was the constable who had spoken.

"She's got worms crawling in there on 'er," the constable gulped, sounding like the young man that he was instead of the model of authority he represented.

Michael did not spare time on the constable's horror. He had experienced his own, twenty-nine years earlier. Now he must get Anne through hers.

"Anne." Leaning down, he grasped her underneath her shoulders and legs and lifted her clear of the coffin. The back of her dress was damp. It did not matter to him, but he knew it would matter to her. "Anne, talk to me. Open your eyes. It's all right. Open your eyes, Anne."

Anne opened her eyes. Her pupils were dilated with terror. Tears continued pouring down her cheeks. "Put me down."

Her voice was hoarse from screaming; begging; sobbing.

There was no room for pride inside a coffin.

Michael carefully set her down. A worm slithered onto her neck.

She screamed. His spinster who had always prided herself on her self-control did not now have any.

Michael wanted to weep.

"It's all right, Anne." Quickly, efficiently, he plucked the earthworms off her. "They can't hurt you. It's all right. Don't. Don't cry. Don't let him do this to you."

But she couldn't stop crying. And Michael knew why.

"Leave us," he roughly commanded.

The young constable was only too eager to escape the stench and the horror.

"Anne. Don't. It's all right. I'm going to make it better." He wrapped his left arm around her and pressed her face against his shoulder, knowing she was going to struggle, knowing he might hurt her, knowing there was no other solution. Hiking up her wool skirt, he slid his hand up the inside of her thigh.

Silk.

She wore a pair of the silk drawers Madame Rene had delivered.

They were wet; not all of the dampness came from desire.

Anne fought him, as he had expected she would. "Let me go.
What are you doing
?"

"He put something inside you, Anne."

"It's worms! Oh, God, they're everywhere!" She pushed with a strength he would not have thought she possessed. "Let me go! Don't touch me! I can feel them—oh, God, oh, God, oh, God, they're inside me—"

"No." He held her firmly. Tears burned his eyes. "Listen to me, Anne. It's not worms inside you. I promise. It's two silver balls. They create sexual excitation inside a woman. Don't fight me. Please. Let me take them out…"

She wrenched out of his arms.

Michael watched a miracle. On the verge of hysteria, she found the strength to take control. "Please. I can… turn around."

He would give her this. For now.

But he would not allow his uncle to destroy her passion or her awakening sensuality. Too much had already been taken away from both of them.

Michael turned around.

Anne concentrated on two things: not screaming and the bath she would take when she reached her Dover house. Underneath her the carriage churned and writhed. Beside her, Michel—
she still did not know his given name
, did not even remember if she had known it twenty-seven years ago when he supposedly died—burned and throbbed.

No, it was
her
body that burned and throbbed and churned and writhed. While she sat in clothes that were soiled by her own fear.
By her own helplessness
.

She clamped her mouth shut to control the rising hysteria. Nausea roiled in her stomach. "There is no need to escort me to my estate, monsieur…" Her throat was raw; her voice gravelly. The pain did not stop the words rising up inside her. "What do I call you? Monsieur des Anges? The honorable Mr. Sturges Bourne? You are the nephew of an earl. It is important in our society to adhere to protocol. I want to address you by your proper title."

"You are in shock," was the flat rejoinder.

She was babbling, but she was not in shock. Every nerve in her body hummed and sang. Thoughts flitted through her mind like crystal butterflies.

Frank had removed her hat. It remained in the Earl of Granville's bedchamber, as did her gloves and reticule.

The earl still possessed a part of her.

Pressing her hand over her mouth, she stared out the window. Darkness closed around her.
Like a coffin
.

It dawned on her why the man who sat beside her did not sleep in darkness.

She swallowed the bile. "What was in the other coffin? He said—" Her lips trembled uncontrollably as the memories rolled over her. "He said it was my mother."

"It was a dead cat. Or dog. Or rat."

"You would know."

"Yes, I would know."

She wrapped her arms around her torso; the grenadine cloak abraded her fingers. Invisible worms continued to crawl over her skin.

As they crawled over her mother. Her father.
Buried deep in the darkness
.

Anne gagged.

"Put your head down between your knees."

"I am fine," she insisted through clenched teeth. "Please do not trouble yourself over me."

"You will feel better after a bath."

She prayed so. She feared she would never feel better. That her skin would always crawl.

A bitter taste lingered in her mouth.

The tea. Her terror, lying in darkness. The scent of death and the musty odor of worms—

No, if she went that route she would start screaming again.

Anne Aimes. A woman who screamed in passion. A
woman who screamed in fear
.

It did not seem possible that a scant twelve hours earlier she had taken pleasure in the anonymity and swaying comfort of riding on a train. And only hours before that, she had cried out her release and felt this man's answering passion flood her body.

"The second night I was with you," she said abruptly, hoarsely. "You put something in my wine."

"Yes."

"Why?"

"I needed time to make arrangements for your safety."

"Don't lie to me," she said fiercely. "You knew…" She could not make herself go on. "Lady Wenterton. She's the woman you said you cared about. The one you experienced intimate sex… and friendship with."

The carriage lurched forward in the darkness. "Yes."

"He did this to her."

"Yes."

"You loved her."

"Yes."

"And you let him do that to her!" Revulsion rocketed through Anne. "How could you?"

"I didn't know he had her." His voice was distant. "I thought she visited her sister. I received telegrams. I didn't know."

"But you knew…" Anne took a calming breath. "You knew what he would do to me."

"Yes."

"What did you hope to gain through your deception?"

"Revenge."

Why wouldn't the carriage hurry?

Why wouldn't the pain stop?

Her teeth chattered. With cold. With betrayal. With the repugnance and terror that would not end. "How long did he have Lady Wenterton?"

"Two months."

Anne closed her eyes. She tried to imagine what it would be like to be imprisoned inside a coffin for two months,
consumed by lustful cravings
.

She could not.

Anne opened her eyes and stared at the blur that was his face. "How did she die?"

"Diane sealed her bedchamber door with cloth and turned on the gas in her lamp. An explosion occurred—probably as a result of burning embers in the fireplace. She wanted to die. She did."

There was nothing more to be said.

Lady Wenterton had chosen death over living.

Anne could not blame her.

She huddled back into the corner of the carriage and concentrated on the hard, cracked leather seat, the fresh hay underneath her feet, the bumping grate of the wheels—anything but the darkness and the slippery heat that continued to coil and writhe inside her.

He did not speak.

As if he waited…

For what?

The moment the lurching, swaying motion stopped, Anne wrenched open the coach door and jumped out.

She fell.
Clumsy, clumsy, clumsy old spinster
.

Immediately, strong, scarred hands reached out for her.

Anne shrugged them off and scrambled to her feet.

She had had three nights of passion. She would regret them for as long as she lived.

Her Dover house was dark.

Still.

A giant coffin, waiting.

Anne pounded on the door, forgetting dignity, welcoming the pain, the noise. Trying to run from the memories and the presence of the man behind her.

"Why wouldn't he go away?"

Her butler threw open the door, a lit candle in his gnarled hand, aged face crunched up in unaccustomed irritation. His jaw dropped. "Miss Anne!"

He was too old for this job, Anne thought irrationally. Tomorrow she would retire him. She would put the estate up for sale and retire all of her servants.

But that was tomorrow.

Anne had to get through the remainder of the night.

She raced up the steps, silk petticoats and wool dress tangling her feet.

"Miss Anne!" chased after her, a spiraling echo. A masculine murmur responded; it drifted up the stairs and through her body.

She did not stop running.

The scent of damp wood, musty air, and carbolic disinfectant permeated the dark paneling lining the hallway and the green wool runner underfoot. It did not alleviate the stench of death that clung to her clothes, her hair, her skin.

So many things were clear now.

The abundance of flowers in his town house. His proclamation of passion.

He had not wanted a woman: he had wanted vengeance.

Anne threw open the door to her bedchamber and scrambled for the matches inside her nightstand drawer. She turned on the gas in her lamp—and for one timeless second thought about Lady Wenterton.

Hurriedly she struck a match, picked up the etched crystal globe, and lit the burner tip. Replacing the globe, she turned the light up as high as it would go.

The walls writhed with shadows.

Anne tore at her bodice. A button cannonaded across the room, soundlessly disappearing into faded green carpeting.

It did not matter. Nothing mattered, except getting out of her clothes.

The ridiculously frivolous, wireless bustle dropped with a muffled swish; her petticoats with a whispering hiss. She was afraid to look, afraid she would find more worms.

The corset.

She could not unlace
the corset
.

Her abigail was asleep in her bed. Anne did not want her maid to see her like this.

Underneath the corset her skin crawled.

Hysteria pushed and clawed inside her, a living entity trying to gain expression.

She would not let the earl do this to her.

Scissors…

Anne frantically rummaged inside her closet for the sewing basket that had not seen the light of day for ten months.

Her mother had thought a lady must occupy herself with needle and thread. Anne had humored her when she sat at her bedside, neatly stitching handkerchiefs that would never be used.

The small twin blades were fashioned to snip threads; they sawed through the black satin, fiber by fiber. She threw both the corset and the scissors at the shadows that would not stop writhing.

It did not stop the coiling inside her.

Flinging the damp, clinging silk chemise over her head—
Oh, God, he had felt and seen her lack of control
—she untied her drawers and kicked them off. Vaguely shocked at her violence, she ripped off her garters and silk stockings.

Her hair—she frenziedly plucked out the pins, leaned over, and shook out the slithering tresses, fingers combing through them over and over.

There was no time to heat the water in the geyser.

Hands trembling, Anne lit the twin wall sconces on either side of the mirror above the bathroom sink.

A disheveled spinster looked out of the glass, silver shining in her pale brown hair. She was all too recognizable.

The earl had shown her
exactly
what distinguishing quality she possessed.

She twisted a plain brass tap. Rust cascaded from the spout. Unable to wait for the narrow copper tub to fill, Anne stepped into it and scrambled to fit under the spout. An icy deluge pounded the back of her head. The water was so cold it took her breath away. Straightening, she reached for a bar of soap and washcloth. She scrubbed her skin and scalp until they were as raw as her throat. When the tub was full, she twisted off the tap and scrubbed some more.

The worms continued to crawl on her body. Inside.
Outside
.

Anne held her head underwater. Her hair floated about her. Alive.

She sat up, gasping for oxygen.

He stood beside the tub, coatless, hatless, gloveless. Michel des Anges, the Honorable Mr. Sturges Bourne. Black hair curled through the opened placket of his white shirt. Stubbly beard darkened his face. The scars edging his cheek were stark white.

Water streaming down her face, Anne slapped her arms over her chest. Vaguely she realized how ridiculous she must appear.

He had seen far more than her breasts.

"Get out. My solicitor—"
Was dead
. What had he done with Mr. Little's body? "I'll make arrangements for the bank to deposit the remainder of your money."

"I don't want your money, Anne." Regret glimmered in his violet eyes, was instantly gone. "I never wanted your money."

He had never wanted her money.
Her passion
.

"Nevertheless—" Her strained voice cracked. She swallowed. "Nevertheless, that is what the contract stipulated. I will honor the terms. Please leave. The servants will talk."

Anne cringed at her hypocrisy.

It was too late to be concerned over what servants would say.

What did it matter what anyone said
ever
again
?

Gossip did not paralyze or imprison.

It did not make one scream until one's throat burned and swelled shut.

It did not—

"Get up."

Anne snapped clear of the yawning blackness. "I beg your pardon?"

"I said get up." He reached for the towel on the rack beside the copper tub. "You're turning blue."

"Monsieur des Anges—"

"My name is Michael."

Michel is French for Michael. And my name is Gabriel.

Black hair. Silver hair.
Gray hair
.

"I don't care what you call yourself; get out of my house! For God's sake, haven't you done enough?"

One second she was looking up at him; the next they were eye-to-eye. In one smooth motion he lifted her out of the tub and wrapped the towel around her.

"You're going to listen to me," he grated. "Whether you want to or not."

"So that I can
understand
?" she screamed rawly—and promptly clamped her mouth shut, appalled at her loss of control. She stood wrapped in the towel, her throat on fire, shivering, trembling, hating her weakness, her vulnerability.

Hating that she still wanted him.

While her mother lay dead, food for worms.

"You think you will never recover." Hot breath scorched her face. "You can. You will. I'm going to help you."

She gulped down her revulsion and gripped the towel between her breasts, wrenching control out of his hands. "I don't want your help."

He loomed over her, tall, dark, handsome, everything she had ever wanted in a man. "That is regrettable, Mademoiselle Aimes, because you're going to get it."