Wicked at Heart (22 page)

The very thought
made her heart pound.  She bent her head, her face hot as she fumbled through
her reticule for her notebook.  "I don't know what to think anymore,
Morninghall.  You're a man of many facades — and surprises."  She
remembered his strange wariness, his anger, when she had accused him of having
a heart, and slapping her notebook on the table and leaning forward, she pressed
her own attack to deflect his.  "
I'm
still wondering about this
sudden display of compassion on behalf of that boy."

He looked down
at the ledger, casually flipping a page.  "I told you, it was guilt, not
compassion."

"You're not
nearly as hard-hearted as you think you are.  That boy proves it."

"Yes, and
Satan was able to charm Eve before he brought about man's downfall, too."

"Satan was
once an angel of God."

"I am no
angel."

"No, but
you took pity on that boy, took him into your care, and here you sit, going
through these tedious records and digging through pages of figures, and for
what reason?  Your conscience?  This heart you say you don't have?"

"To get you
out of my life," he snapped, growing angry.

"Try again,
Morninghall.  I don't believe you for a moment.  I see a spark of goodness in
you, and I'm going to do everything I can to fan it into a flame that consumes
everything in its path."

She sat back,
smiling with triumph, her arms folded smugly across her chest.

Damon looked up
slowly, his hand stilled where he had been turning another page.  He did not
say a word, merely stared at her until her confident smile began to wane, her
color faded, and she straightened up in the chair, wary now, her hands lowering
to her lap as though she were poised to flee.

"What did
you say?" he asked softly.

"I . . . I
said that there is goodness in you and that —"

"
There
is
no good in me
," he ground out with such fury that her eyes widened and
she leaned backward, paling.

There isn't,
he thought savagely, releasing her from his gaze and angrily turning the page. 
The very idea that there was made him feel uneasy, defenseless, afraid.  Goodness
drew people to you, made them want to see inside your soul,
be
inside
your soul — an intimacy that sent threads of terror straight out to his
fingertips.  Intimacy made you vulnerable, and if you were vulnerable, people humiliated
you, hurt you.  It was better to be diabolical and wicked and keep people at
arm's length, and best to be so damned intimidating that no one would ever
challenge you.

"Morninghall,
I didn't mean to —"

"
I said,
there is no damned good in me!
" he snarled, furious now.  He flipped
another page, nearly ripping it from the binding.  "There's nothing
admirable, worthy, or lovable about me!  My own damned mother knew it; she hated
me, hurled wine bottles at me, abused me, hit me, hurt me, humiliated me! 
Every time people have been nice to me, they've turned on me, and despite that
pleasant
exchange in your garden, I know you're no different from any of the rest!"

She stared at
him in shock.  He didn't care.  He realized he was breathing hard and fast, and
he didn't care about that either.  Another page nearly ripped as he turned it
with violent force.  How dare she assume he was something he was not?  She
could not see, could not
feel
, his darkness!  She did not live in his
devil's body with its charred, black heart, its constant yearnings for
something to which he could not put a name, its paralyzing sense of despair,
envy, fury, and self-hatred.  She was light and he was dark.  She was good and
he was evil.  The dark hated the light, hid from it, and there was nothing she
could do to change that . . . nothing!  Stupid female, she ought to flee, run
as far and fast as she damn well could before it was too late for her!

She's getting
too close, isn't she, old boy?

Fear snaked
through him.  He began to feel hot, shaky, sick.

Too close to
what?
  He didn't know, didn't want to know.  The core of him, probably.  The
darkness.  Why else did he feel this unexplainable fury, just because she'd
proclaimed him
good
?  Fury, just because Billy had brought him some
daffodils?  It was the same violent anger he felt every time he saw the love
and tenderness between a mother and her child, a pair of lovers, a boy and his
dog, the same thing he felt every time he regarded something delicate and
pretty and fragile:  impotent rage.  He didn't know what spawned it, but
whatever it was, it was dark and ugly, and he was afraid to look at it too
closely.

And if Lady
Gwyneth Evans Simms ever figured out what it was — some deficiency within himself
that Damon could not, would not, examine — he knew that he'd be as vulnerable
as a snake freshly shed of its skin.

Too late, he
realized he was sweating, trembling, breathing too fast.  Too late, he realized
an attack was upon him, that he couldn't get enough air, and oh, God, there was
the terrible gray tunnel, lingering on the perimeter of his vision.  Dread
coursed through him, and, with it, nausea. 
Oh, hell.
  Not now.  Not with
her
here to witness his ultimate humiliation!

He jumped to his
feet, gasping, his chair crashing back —

"Morninghall?"

"I've got
to get outside —"

She caught his
hand and held it down on the table, misinterpreting the source of his
agitation.  "The depth of your self-hatred knows no bottom, does it, my
lord?" she asked softly.

Shivering with
flashes of heat and cold, suffocating and short of breath, Damon wanted only to
run, to flee, before it was too late.  A drop of sweat rolled down his temple,
and beneath her cool palm he made a fist, trying desperately to regain control
before everything exploded.  There was the humming in his ears now, getting
louder by the second, the fatal racing of his heart —

He raised his
head and turned the full force of his stare on her in a last effort to save
himself.

"Kindly
remove your hand from mine, Lady Simms, or I will not be responsible for what I
shall do to you."

She only looked
at him — and did not let go.

Too late.  The
roaring started in his ears, cold sweat burst from every pore, and he saw the
dizzying rush of the gray tunnel imploding on his vision.

God help me.

The attack
struck.

Chapter
13

"My lord?"

He tore free of
her and lunged blindly across the room, the panic chasing him, a thousand
demons shrieking in his ears, strangling him, dimming his vision.  
I'm going
mad!
he thought.  He saw Lady Simms' horrified face, Rothschild running
from the back room, sunlight and shadows, the door.  
I must  reach the door!

He never made
it.  He collapsed, the floor smashing into his hip, the plastered wall against
his shoulder and cheek.  As he lay there, propped against the wall, gasping,
shaking, dying, he heard Lady Simms come running across the room, smelled
peaches as she fell to her knees beside him.

"Go, Rothschild,
fetch a doctor!"

Her hand gripped
Damon's shoulder.

"It's all
right, Morninghall," she said firmly, her face close to his, her voice
sounding as though it came from a hundred miles away.  He made a strangled
noise, unable to breathe, his body shaking violently.  Her hand was cool
against his brow, smoothing his hair, and through the thunder of his heartbeat,
through his half-closed, staring eyes, he saw her green dress and knew it was
the last thing on earth his eyes would ever behold.

"I'm dying"
—
gasp
— "I'm dying" —
gasp
— "help me, I'm dying —
dying — dying . . ."  He heard only his own desperate panting, felt only terror
as death came whooshing in from all sides, reducing him to a whimpering,
helpless animal cowering against the wall.  Shuddering convulsively, he shut
his eyes and pressed himself against the plaster, each deafening thump of his
racing heart, each gulping breath of air surely his last.  Oh, God, he couldn't
breathe.  
Help me —

"Please,
hold me," he wheezed, too terrified to be ashamed.  "Please . . . I'm
dying . . . hold me."

"You're
going to be all right."  Her voice came in undulating waves from far
away.  "
Don't just stand there, Rothschild, get a doctor!
"

"Hold
me."  His breath was roaring through his lungs, yet still he couldn't get
air.  "
Please . . .
"

White with alarm,
Gwyneth knelt close to the stricken marquess and, without hesitation, put her
arms around his heaving shoulders.  The violent tempo of his breathing bounced
her up and down.  Great, rippling shudders racked his powerful frame, and his
shirt was hot and damp beneath her cheek.  She looked up at his head resting
against the plaster wall, the beads of sweat rolling down his flushed brow. 
His eyes were half shut, and through the veil of his lashes, she saw they were
wild and glassy.

"Why now .
. . why now, of all places? . . ." he murmured.

She sat down on
the floor with him, managing to pull him away from the wall and up against her
body.  He turned his face into her chest, his hot breath blasting the swell of
her breasts, the violent shuddering tearing through his body with merciless
cruelty as she held him close.

"Damon." 
Her voice was gentle yet firm.

He turned his
face to the side, his ear against her breastbone, trying to draw breath. 
"Hold me, madam — please — don't leave me.  Oh,
damnation
, this is
so bloody humiliating — so — so —"

"Calm
down," she said, stroking his hair and holding him close against her
breast.  "You're not dying.  You're
not dying
, Damon.  Do you hear
me, you're not dying!  Now take deep breaths.  Slow, deep breaths, in through
your nose, out through your mouth."

"I can't —
can't breathe — dying —"

"Deep
breaths, Damon.  I have you.  You're not going to die."

He tried, but
his lungs were already starved for air, pumping madly, and he could only gasp
helplessly.  Then, on a last, defeated exhalation, he sagged in her arms, his
weight nearly sending her over backward.

For one terrible
moment Gwyneth thought he was dead — until she realized he was still breathing,
softly and calmly.  The short, rapid gasps had leveled out and returned to
normal.

It hit her
then. 
Just like Morganna.

The door opened
and Rothschild was there.  She hadn't even heard him run out.

He came
sheepishly forward.  "I couldn't find a doctor, m'lady."

"Never
mind.  I think he's going to be all right now."

"What's
wrong with him?"

"I don't
know."

"Too damned
highbred, if you ask me.  High-strung.  All that inbreeding and blue blood, no
wonder he had a fit."

"I don't
think it was a fit, Mr. Rothschild."  It occurred to Gwyneth that it was
quite improper to be sitting here on the floor with the prone body of the
Marquess of Morninghall in her arms, but she didn't care, for her memory was
reaching back over the years . . . reaching back to her little sister. 
Morganna had been terrified of thunderstorms, and whenever one had rolled in
over the hills, she had displayed the same behavior just exhibited by the
marquess.  The sweating, the shakes, the blind terror, the utter conviction
that they were dying, the out-of-control breathing until unconsciousness
restored everything to normal — yes, the symptoms were exactly the same.

"What do
you think it was, then?" Rothschild asked, squatting well away from
Morninghall, as though he feared contamination.

Gwyneth smiled
and stroked the marquess's hair, caught up in those long-ago memories.

"My little
sister used to get them," she said softly.  "The doctor never did
figure out where they came from."  A long moment went by, the ticking of a
shelf clock the only sound.   "But I did."

~~~~

Consciousness
came back to him by degrees, nudging his brain awake with a varied offering of
scents:  fresh peaches . . . beeswax . . . the faint pungency of his own sweat
. . . the damp mustiness of an old room.  He became aware of the floor beneath
his thigh and legs, of fabric and warm flesh against his cheek, a heartbeat
beneath his ear, and somebody's arms wrapped around his shoulders.

His heart was no
longer racing.  He could breathe.

Slowly, dazedly,
Damon opened his eyes.

The first thing
he saw was Rothschild, squatting on his heels, staring at him.  The second
thing he saw was a green bombazine sleeve two inches from his nose — and
suddenly he knew just who was holding him.

Lady Gwyneth
Evans Simms.

Mortification
blazed through him.  He remembered his shameless, childish pleas just before he
had passed out, remembered how pitifully he had begged to be held.  God help
him, he had never been so embarrassed, so utterly, crushingly,
humiliated
in all his cursed life.

Realizing he was
awake, she relaxed her hold on him.  "Are you all right now,
Morninghall?"

Her voice was
full of pity, compassion, tenderness — enough to send him fleeing from it and straight
into another attack.

"Bloody
hell. 
Damnation
."  He pushed her arm aside and shoved himself out
of her embrace, driving his fists into his eye sockets as though to obliterate
the memory of what had just happened to him — and how he had reacted.  He could
not look at her, could not face her, after the attack had reduced him to a
groveling, terrified child.  Gone was the image she might have had of him, of a
man of strength, intelligence, sanity.  She had seen him for what he was:  a
lunatic, a madman, a coward.