Wicked at Heart (6 page)

He hated her.

He wanted her.

He —

The attack hit
just as he was hauling himself back to his feet via the aid of the table leg. 
Pain slammed into his chest.  It was no ordinary pain, but a horrible,
constricting sensation, like a giant fist squeezing his heart, tight, tighter,
now so tightly that he couldn't breathe.  Gasping, he half fell into the chair
and over the table, his body breaking out in a cold sweat, his hands shaking,
his vision narrowing until it was merely a scope through a gray and shrinking
tunnel.  He grabbed for the
Peterson's
, curling it under his chest as he
sank down over it, the heavy book pushing against his heart.

He closed his
eyes, feeling himself detaching from his body, leaving it.

I'm dying. 
This time, it's for certain.  Oh, God, help me, I don't want to die as I have
lived —

Alone.

"Milford."
 His knuckles turned white as he gripped the
Peterson's
and he heard his
heart racing like a galloping horse.  "
Milford
!
"

Silence.  Stillness. 
Lazy footsteps on the deck above.  Gasping, the sweat rolling down his temples,
Damon raised his head and tore open the medical encyclopedia, desperately
searching for the correct entry, the subtitles growing foggy beneath the
encroaching grey clouds of the constricting tunnel.

His heart
fluttered madly in his chest.

He couldn't
think, couldn't concentrate.  He had to read the entry four times before its
meaning sank into his dizzy brain.

"A sharp
and incessant pain in the chest can be the result of overwork, worry, or
impending death —"

"
Milford
!"
Damon shouted, hoarsely.

Further on,
"or
a stomach colic caused by an excitement of nerves."

He lunged to his
feet, the book crashing to the floor.  This wasn't the stomach, the stomach was
much lower than where this pain was, the stomach didn't flutter erratically
beneath the sternum.  No, this time he was truly dying because his heart was
pulsing, stumbling, that gray tunnel was collapsing in on itself, and now he
couldn't think, couldn't breathe, couldn't see, couldn't get enough air —

Damon lunged forward,
clawing at his throat, fighting desperately to breathe.

Air!

The tunnel
collapsed.

The next thing
he knew, he was lying on the deck flooring, staring dazedly up at the bulkhead
and the Reverend Peter Milford's worried face.

"Damon?"

He took a deep,
tentative breath.  The pain was gone, as though it had never been.  Stillness,
silence, engulfed him.

"Are you
all right?"

"Christ,
I'm dead."

"I'm not
Christ, and no, you're not dead."  Stretching out a hand, the young
chaplain helped Damon sit up and pressed a glass of brandy to his lips. 
"Another fit, my friend?"

"It wasn't
a fit, I don't have
fits
.  It was an attack."  He raked the hair
off his damp brow.  "A heart attack."

"I
see," the chaplain said patiently, his hazel eyes kind and concerned
beneath his rumpled blond curls.  "Shall I send for the surgeon?"

"No, he'll
merely look at me as though he thinks I'm imagining it all, as though it's all
in my head, same thing the miserable old wretch tells me every time I summon
him."  Damon lunged to his feet and, leaning against the table's edge,
mopped his brow with a handkerchief.  At least the pain and feelings of
suffocation were gone, as was the horrible, paralyzing panic that went with
it.  "What does
he
know, anyhow, the worthless butcher,
he's
not the one suffering these blasted things!"

"Perhaps
the surgeon is correct,"  Milford mused, unflinching as Damon shot him an
angry, threatening glare.  "I mean, you
do
tend to let your
imagination get carried away . . ."

"My father
died three years short of his fourth decade, and my mother ended her days in a London
asylum.  Don't tell me my illnesses are all in my head!"

"Your father
died in a duel with Lord Aylesbury, Damon, with a bullet in his chest.  And
your mother, from all accounts, was strung more tightly than an overtuned
violin.  Something snapped.  As it will do with you if you do not find some
measure of calmness and serenity.  Now sit down, for pity's sake, and tell me
about this lovely creature who nearly ran me over in the corridor
outside."

That
brought Damon's mind immediately away from his health, as the clever young
chaplain intended it should.

"Lovely
creature?  Is
that
what you think of that confounded Jezebel?"

Peter gave an
infuriating smile.  "I see our opinions differ.  As always."

"That
'lovely creature' could've led the British Army to victory at Austerlitz,"
Damon snarled, staring out the window with a gaze that threatened to burn a
hole through the smoky glass.  "As it was, the cursed witch nearly
unmanned me.  'Twill be a bloody wonder if I'm ever able to father a child,
now."

"Yes, well,
since you've no intention of ever marrying and producing an heir, I don't see
why it should matter," Peter quipped, ignoring Damon's furious glare.  He
reached down, picked the
Peterson's
up off the floor, and with a
disapproving frown, placed it on the table.  "By the way, who was
she?"

"Lady
Gwyneth Evans Simms."

The chaplain
paused, then nodded, once.  "Ah."

"Does that
explain it?"

"Quite
aptly, I'm afraid."

Damon refilled
his glass and began to pace slowly back and forth.  "She has apparently
decided that prison ships are a blight upon humanity, and has taken it upon herself
to reform them, starting with ours."

"Can't say
as though I blame her.  I have long held the belief that the British practice
of imprisoning people on foul and stinking ships is something God must weep over
daily."

"I know it
is.  Why do you think I have taken steps to put matters aright?"

"Taken
steps
?" 
The chaplain, incredulous, shook his head.  "Be honest with yourself,
Damon.  And with me.  Your so-called actions have nothing to do with any
pretended concern and compassion for those prisoners, and everything to do with
getting revenge on Bolton and humiliating the navy you think has betrayed
you."

"The navy
has
betrayed me.  And as for the prisoners and my actions, the end result is the
same, regardless of my incentives.  That's what
really
matters."

"Rubbish,
Damon, and you know it."

"Spare me
the damned sermon, Peter.  It isn't even Sunday."

"I see I'm
getting too close to your fiercely guarded heart."

"You know
me well enough by now to know I lack such an organ."

"Hmm.  Perhaps,
then, a stroll belowdecks amongst those who suffer worse than you will plant
one in that unfeeling chest of yours.  But no.  Such a garden is too stony for
a heart to germinate, let alone flourish.  Forgive me for even suggesting
it."  Peter moved to the door, his face tight with suppressed anger. 
"May God have mercy on you, Damon —"

"Wait."

The chaplain
paused, his hand on the door latch.

"I just
don't want that meddling witch interfering on my ship," Damon muttered,
keeping his sullen gaze on the contents of his glass.

Peter turned and
leaned back against the door, silently watching Damon as the latter agitatedly
rubbed his thumb around the rim of the glass, his mouth growing harder by the
second.  "I see."

Damon glanced at
him, eyes mutinous.  "Is that all you have to say?"

"Actually,
it isn't.  But what I
do
have to say is something you'll have no wish to
hear."

"That's
never stopped you in the past."

"Indeed." 
Peter's mouth turned up in the barest of smiles.  "You tell me that you
have no desire for that 'meddling witch' to interfere on your ship.  Well, I
think the only
interference
that Lady Simms will provide will be on your
heart."

"I know
that, what do you think nearly did me in a damned minute ago?"

"No." 
The chaplain smiled, a teasing light in his eye.  "I'm talking,
romantically."

The marquess
looked up.  Peter Milford had met many men in his life, but he had yet to
encounter one who could convey such emotion as Morninghall just by altering the
shadows and expressions in his eyes.  Now he saw irritation move across the
slate-blue irises, before the studied, terminally bored look swept in to mask
everything.

"I would
never fancy a woman like that.  I prefer demure, sweet, mild-mannered —"

"Tarts."

"Really,
Peter, if you weren't a man of the cloth, I'd tell you right where to go."

"And if you
weren't a stubborn marquess, I'd tell
you
where to go.  Never mind, I'll
tell you anyhow."

"I don't
want to hear it.  Besides, it is not that Welshwoman's quest that I disapprove
of, but her high-handedness.  A meager command I may have, but it is
my
command and I quite object to anyone coming in and telling me what to do."

"Damon." 
The chaplain fixed him with a sad smile.  "When are you ever going to
realize that God did not make you for the service?  You would be far happier, I
think, if you left the navy, found yourself a wife, and took up your duties at
Morninghall."

"I'm not
leaving the navy.  I have a score to settle with these bastards.  Besides, I'm
hardly marriage material, and Morninghall is the last place on earth I wish to
go."

"I stand by
my feelings," Peter said, as though Damon had never even spoken. 
"Admiral Bolton hates you for killing his son in that duel, and will not
let up until he has broken you.  Furthermore, you have never been able to take
an order with humility and obedience, were never meant to submit to anyone's
authority but your own, and thus, you can never hope to get anywhere in the navy. 
For mercy's sake, Damon, you are the Marquess of Morninghall.  Go home.  You
don't belong in this environment."

Damon turned to
look out the window, his hands clenched tightly behind his back.   "Why do
I think I've heard all of this before?" he soliloquized.

"Forgive me
if it bores you."

"If I go
home I'll be even
more
bored.  Out of my bloody skull, I daresay."

"If you go
home, you can put that intelligence of yours to better use than what you're
doing with it here."

"I've just
heard a similar load of bollocks from Lady Simms.  I don't need to hear it from
you."

"Ah, so
you're back to the Lady Simms again.  On your mind quite a bit now, isn't
she?"

"I'm
warning you, Peter, my mood is black enough.  Don't push me."

"Very well,
then, I'll leave you to it."  Hiding a grin, the chaplain turned to
leave.  "Now, if your demise is no longer immediate, I have other duties
to attend to."

"Yes, go. 
I'll summon you next time I see death coming for me with a collection basket. 
Though I suspect its angel won't be garbed in white."

"You're too
hard on yourself, my friend.  You may hate yourself, but I can assure you that
God does not."

The marquess'
expression went bleak, and silently, he turned to gaze out over the harbor once
more, his fingers curling and uncurling.

"Oh, and by
the way, Damon.  You should know that Midshipman Owens is getting a little
rough with the prisoners.  I would speak to him, but . . ."

Damon shut his
eyes.  "Yes, Peter.  I'll take care of it."

~~~~

Lady Gwyneth
Evans Simms rapped sharply on the roof of the carriage, and the vehicle came to
a stop in front of the small house she and her sister, Rhiannon, were renting
in Portsmouth.

She was still
boiling with rage at the effrontery of the insufferable Lord Morninghall, and
his rude treatment, his cutting remarks, and worse, his touch, were all fresh
in her mind.  She could still feel that hot, practiced hand skimming over her
flesh, could still taste that searing kiss, could still smell the spicy scent
of sandalwood, could still see those eyes.

Those eyes!

The footman
helped her down from the carriage, and, skirts in hand, Gwyneth stormed past
the daffodil beds and manicured hedges into the house.

Rhiannon was
sitting in the parlor, a book in her lap and Mattie curled at her feet.  Both
she and the old dog looked up as Gwyneth sailed in.

"Well?"

"I need a
drink, Rhiannon.  Something strong."

"That bad, was
it?"

"The man
was an insufferable boor!"

"Really,
Gwyn, how could you have expected him to be anything else?  I mean, he runs a
prison hulk, for heaven's sake.  We are the company we keep."

"Lord
Morninghall's company is something you couldn't pay me enough money to
keep
,"
Gwyneth spat, as their maid, Sophie, brought in a tray containing a bottle of
whiskey and two glasses.  "He was positively odious.  Awful."

"I hear
he's devilishly handsome."

"He's a
vain, rude, arrogant
beast
!"

Gwyneth picked
up a glass and, hands shaking with rage, splashed some of the whiskey into it. 
She collapsed onto the sofa, letting the liquid fire burn its way down her
throat.  Out of the corner of her eye she could see Rhiannon, head slightly
tilted, ginger curls cascading from their loose coil, green eyes bright and
amused.

"So, what does
he look like?"

"
You
would ask."

"Oh, do
tell!  Is he as handsome as everyone says he is?"

Gwyneth's sigh
was long and bracing.  Resigned.  "His hair is the color of black coffee,
thick and gleaming, with just enough curl in it to give it some interest.  He
wears it swept back off his forehead, rakishly cut, longer than is fashionable,
but on him the effect is altogether . . ."