The duke was a formidable opponent. But at the moment, he was not inclined to acknowledge Trent’s pugilistic prowess. At the moment, all he wanted to do was pound the man’s face in until he stopped grinning like a child who had just been given a pony for Christmas.
“It would be the trouncing of the century,” he declared, his tone as grim as he felt. “Indeed, it will be if you do not cease exulting in my misery. I require your aid.”
Trent took a sip of his port. “My aid? Wonders shall never cease.”
He skewered the duke with a look he hoped conveyed his severe displeasure and impatience both. “I would hate to have to strangle you with your necktie before we rejoin the ladies. Murder just after dinner seems so terribly uncouth.”
“You need not issue warnings, Carlisle.” Trent sobered at last, frowning. “What do you need of me?”
He sighed, a weight settling upon his chest, constricting him, threatening to swallow him whole. “Your promise you will see my wife is taken care of should anything happen to me. I need to know she will always be safe and looked after.”
Trent’s frown deepened. “Jesus, Carlisle. Of course I shall see her protected. She is my wife’s sister. But why would you need such a promise from me?”
The dread grew, tainting all the bittersweet tenderness and hope that blossomed inside him whenever he and Bridget were naked in each other’s arms. It grew and it grew.
He steeled himself, somehow meeting the duke’s gaze without flinching. “I have a plan.”
When their guests had taken their leave, Leo dropped a kiss on Bridget’s brow and laced his fingers through hers. Shaken from her conversation with Daisy, and the knowledge she would soon have to leave this idyll and the man she loved behind—possibly forever—she allowed him to guide her to the ducal apartments. They traveled in silence, neither of them seeming to need words.
The door had scarcely closed on their backs when he took her in his arms and kissed her. His mouth on hers was a beautiful gift, one she could not help welcoming. How she wished she could kiss him like this every night, that he would always be hers. Her arms locked around his neck, her tongue ready for his. There was something different in his kiss tonight. A sadness.
Or mayhap that was merely a projection of her own confused feelings. She kissed him back with more ferocity than necessary, their teeth knocking together as she inhaled deeply of his familiar scent. Spurred on by a growl in his throat, she bit his lower lip, wanting to somehow mark him forever. He groaned and nipped her in return, deepening the kiss until she sagged against his broad chest.
When at last their mouths parted, he gazed down at her, his breathing harsh, expression chiseled from stone. His stare was the pitch of midnight bereft of stars or moonglow.
“I trust you, Bridget, but I need to know if you trust me.”
Did she trust him? Strange how she had not even bothered to question it these last few days. Their union had become something stronger than she had ever imagined it could be. Something real and true and deep. She trusted this man with her body—to touch her and take her and give her pleasure, to lead her to the edge of comfort, and challenge her to go one step further. She wanted to believe him when he said he would protect her, when he said she was his and he meant to keep her as his wife in truth.
She swallowed, settling for partial truth. “Yes, I trust you.”
He nodded once, his expression as intense as ever, jaw a rigid plane carved from marble. “Good. You can trust me, banshee, and I vow it upon my life. Upon my mother’s life.”
Despite herself, she frowned, for the latter avowal was not entirely reassuring.
“My true mother,” he amended. “Lily Ludlow, the only mother I have ever known. I vow it upon her life.”
Bridget nodded, for in one of their late-night dialogues, he had revealed to her how deep his love for Mrs. Ludlow ran. With good reason, it would seem, for the woman had shown him as much love as she had shown her own son. “I believe you, Leo.”
He took her hand, his large, warm one dominating hers. A jolt of energy rocketed through her at the contact, just as it always did, landing between her thighs in a delicious tug of want.
How was it the mere touch of his hand could make her so desperate for him?
It made no sense, and yet, it did. Despite all the reasons why they should never be together, there was something elemental about them that was so very right. She would never be able to stay away from him.
“Come with me,” he ordered, and before she could protest, he led her to the massive bookshelves dominating one of the walls of his chamber. Stopping just before it, his free hand shot out, fingers reaching beneath a shelf, almost as if testing its texture.
But then a mechanical click snapped through the silence between them, and he pushed on the shelves. They gave way under his pressure, revealing a dark passageway within. The light from his chamber illuminated several feet, and cool air, along with the undeniable scent of a room that had been kept closed for too long—must and dust—a century or more of walls that had been lived and loved in.
But this dark, desolate passageway seemed rather eerie. She could not help but to feel as if he intended to lead her to her prison cell at last. Her trepidation must have shown on her features, for he squeezed her fingers with his in a gesture of reassurance and lowered his head to drop a kiss on her cheek.
“You are safe with me, Bridget,” he whispered against her ear. “Always.”
She believed him when he uttered those words, so she allowed him to lead her into the passage, bringing a handheld lamp along with him which illuminated only a mere scant foot before them. Once they were inside the passageway, he released her hand and found the mechanism within the wall that slid the door closed once more.
They were closed off from the outside world entirely.
Hidden from everyone and everything.
Bridget should have been frightened of the notion. Once, before she had come to know Leo, she would have been terrified to follow him blindly into the darkness. But he was the man she loved. And so, when his fingers found hers once more, she laced them tightly to his, allowing him to lead her where he would.
They traveled through the darkness, making two turns and going down a set of steps, before they reached a small chamber. One by one, he lit the gas lamps within, and with them all burning at once, the room seemed rather like any other, aside from its distinctive oblong shape and its lack of windows.
She cast curious glances around her, noting a solid but beautifully carved desk, chairs, a handsome sideboard with decanters and tumblers, and pictures hanging on the wall. Oils, all of them, done in dark and somber tones, mostly landscapes. One in particular captured her attention—the silhouette of a female form, a raging deluge of rain pounding down around her.
She turned to him, feeling awkward, as though he had just shown her a glimpse of what it looked like inside himself. He watched her with an expression she could not decipher. “What is this place?”
“It is my haven.” His lips quirked into a self-deprecating half-smile. “Less than five others know of its existence, and you can now count yourself among them.”
“Thank you for trusting me enough with its secret,” she said, understanding how much this meant for him.
For Leopold Travers, Duke of Carlisle, this was as close to an admission of his feelings for her as he could reasonably get. She understood it for what it was, and she appreciated it all the same. Leo was no ordinary man, and neither was she an ordinary woman. Together, they might have had a chance at being extraordinary, were there not other forces conspiring to tear them apart.
“I brought you here to show you how much I trust you,” he said. “But I also brought you here so we could have a private conversation. This is the one chamber in the entire household where I am ensured nothing that is said shall be overheard.”
His dark gaze on hers gave her pause.
And then, suddenly, epiphany.
“You brought me here so I would c
onfess.” If bitterness tinged her voice, it could not be helped. What had seemed a beautiful gesture, indicative of the way he felt for her, suddenly seemed tawdry. A cruel joke he had decided to perpetrate against her. Here, it seemed, was the heart of the difference she had sensed in his kiss. Perhaps that kiss had been their last. A goodbye.
“I brought you here so we could be honest with each other.”
“No.” Feeling suddenly like a caged animal, she spun on her heel and ran for the door, only to realize it had been sealed once more. Frustrated, she ran her hands along its carved wood surface, her fingers probing for release mechanisms, even the slightest hint of abnormality.
“You’ll not find it.”
The soft warning at her shoulder had her turning her ire toward him.
How dare he be so handsome? So unfairly beautiful? How dare he make her feel special by bringing her here before revealing the reason why?
Gritting her teeth, she cast him a sidelong glance. The sharp, sculpted planes of his face, those dark eyes, that sensual mouth and the beautifully hewn features made her catch her breath, despite the anger rising within her. “What was your intention in bringing me here?”
“Truth.”
“Your truth or mine?” she could not help asking.
“Ours.” He cupped her face. “No one will hear us here. I’m going to help you, Bridget. But I cannot help you unless you tell me everything. I need to know how deep your involvement with the Fenians runs. I need names. Specifics. Truths. Your truths are our truths, and with the answers you give me, I can extricate you from this godawful mess. I can extricate the both of us.”
She wanted to tell him everything. Oh, how she wanted to confess all, to believe he would help Cullen. That he would help her.
But she was also terrified.
“I’ve told you everything I know.”
His lips flattened, his eyes going cold. “Have you forgotten I know when you are lying to me?”
She closed her eyes for a moment, shutting out the sight of him. “What I have not forgotten is you and I are on opposite sides of a war. This armistice will not endure. You and I both know that.”
“You are correct, Bridget. It will not.” His voice held a razor’s edge of anger as he paused, appearing to consider his next words. “That is precisely why I have brought you here. Open your eyes and look at me, damn you. See me.”
She shook her head, eyes still tightly closed. If she could not meet his gaze, she could remain firm in the decisions she must make. He was her Gorgon. She could not look. Would not look. She needed to be strong. Her reckoning had reached her sooner than she had imagined it would, and in an entirely different manner, but there was no denying it any longer.
It was here.
“I cannot,” she said resolutely. “You must resign yourself to knowing I will go, Leo. I will leave you, because the man tasked with apprehending Fenians cannot also be the man who is bedding one.”
“You are not a Fenian, damn it. You are my wife.” Though his tone was harsh, his touch remained tender, his thumbs tracing her cheekbones in slow, tender strokes.
Those strokes made her weak. Weak as she must not be.
“Am I not?” With a cry, she opened her eyes at last, seeing his beloved visage through the sheen of her tears. “I am a proud Irishwoman, and I shall be until the day I die. I am not of your kind, nor would I wish to be. I have hosted the men you seek to imprison in my parlor. I count them trusted friends. I have kept their secrets and done as they wished of me. Does that not make me guilty?”
“What crimes have you committed, damn you?” he demanded.
“Coercion,” she said solemnly. “Arrest me. Take me to prison now. Make it swift.”
“Damn you, Bridget. I am not taking you to prison. I am trying to help you.”
She shook free of him, seeking to put some necessary distance between them. She could not think when his skin was upon hers, when he stroked her with the soft seduction of a lover. When the anguish in his expression pierced her heart like the blade of a sword.
She stalked to the opposite end of the narrow chamber, arms wrapped protectively around herself, before turning back to face him. “Perhaps I do not want your help, Leo. Has that occurred to you?”
It was not true, for she would love his help. But she feared he would not give it, and if she revealed everything to him, he could use it against her. As it stood, all she had to protect herself with was the answers he wanted. If she gave them to him, she would be defenseless.
He remained where she had left him, his bearing stiff, his mien grim. “Tell me one thing, if you please. Why do you keep their secrets for them?”
Because she did not dare to trust him entirely. Because he was her ruin, her downfall, her only weakness, and her every sin. Because she owed her brother loyalty and love. Because she could not turn her back on him.
But she said none of those things. Her heart hammered away, her palms damp, her mouth dry. “Because I must. I swore an oath to them, and I keep my word.”
Even from across the room, his anger was as palpable as a lash. “I am your husband. What of the vows you made to me? Will you not keep your word to me?”
She swallowed, unable to answer. He stalked toward her, a storm of a man, tall and broad and powerful, and enraged. There was nowhere for her to run, no means of escape, so she remained where she was, chin high.
“You said you were falling in love with me,” he reminded her. “You claim to trust me. Are you a liar, Bridget Carlisle?”
“O’Malley,” she corrected miserably.
“Carlisle,” he gritted back, his lip curling. “Do you not realize you are more mine than theirs? Do you not realize I am the man who has saved you from prison, perhaps even from the gallows? That I would do anything to keep you safe from harm?”
She wanted to be Bridget Carlisle. How she wished she could be. How she wanted to fall into him. To make him hers always, rather than for the handful of enchanted days she had been fortunate enough to know.
“My brother is in Kilmainham Gaol,” she said suddenly, startling even herself by broaching the topic of Cullen.
“I am aware.” His gaze turned assessing. “He is being held along with the other Phoenix Park plotters who assassinated the Duke of Burghly. Are you telling me you had something to do with the plotting?”
She shook her head slowly. “No. I had no notion of what was about to happen. Nor did my brother. Cullen feels strongly for the cause, but he is a lad. Practically a babe. He would never conspire to hurt anyone, let alone to kill so viciously.”
She suppressed a shudder at the newspaper reports she had seen concerning the murders. The assassins had used surgical knives to slash the Chief Secretary of Ireland and his undersecretary to death in Phoenix Park when the men had been innocently walking along. A handful of men had been arrested for the crimes, and she had known them all. One was her own brother.
“The evidence against him is undeniable,” Leo said calmly, his countenance softening.
“Nothing is undeniable,” she argued staunchly. She believed in Cullen’s innocence.
The other men, also men she had known, were harder sorts. They were older, harsher, more touched by life’s bitterness than her brother. Two of them were battle-hardened Americans who had fought in that country’s civil war. They were men who had already killed hundreds of times before.
Cullen was different. He was sweet and kind and good. His only guilt was in loving his country far too much, and in falling into the company of the wrong sort of men. From the moment of his arrest, she had never faltered in her belief he was innocent.
“I know you want to believe the best of him because he is your brother, but he has been inextricably linked to the plotters. There is nothing you can do for him now, Bridget.”
The tiny bud of hope inside her shriveled into a desiccated husk. This was precisely the response she had expected from him. The response she had feared. “What if there was something you co
uld do for him, Leo? Could you help him? Would you be willing to do so for me?”
“I wish I could, but I am a mere man, and I have precious little influence in Dublin where he is incarcerated. Even were I inclined to offer him aid, I do not think it would make a difference. I am familiar with the case against both him and the other conspirators. You must prepare yourself for the worst, I am afraid.”
She nearly doubled over at Leo’s words. They were not hard or cutting, not cold or biting. Instead, they were soothing. Sympathetic. As if he truly hated denying her. As if he truly cared. And she could not bear that. Because he was also telling her she had no other choice, that the last path left to her was the selfsame path that had brought her to Leo in the first place. The path that had made her his wife. The path that had made her lose her heart.
He would have her heart forever.
But she would not have him.
Bridget swallowed down the bile. Loss was a terrible monster, and she had not been prepared to lose Leo yet. In truth, she would not be ready to lose him ever. He was a fine man, an honorable man, who shouldered duty and responsibility with equal aplomb. Who never faltered. She would miss him. God, how she would miss him.
“You…are certain?” she asked, struggling to gather her emotions and her words. “Cullen, he is a lad of eighteen. Our mother died when he was a wee one, and I have been mother to him for so many years. He depends upon me. He needs me.”
“I am sorry, darling. Justice must be had for the men whose blood was spilled that day. I know you do not want to believe it, but the facts are incontrovertible. He was one of the conspirators.” Leo folded her in his arms then, and although everything between them had just changed forever, she held him back as if he were the only anchor keeping her from being swept away by a raging tide. In a way, he was. He had become necessary to her. He was beloved. He was the husband of her heart.
The husband she could not keep, for how could she be so selfish as to leave her brother to die at the end of a hangman’s noose?
She pressed her ear to his chest, listening for the rhythmic pulse of his heart. It should have given her comfort. Solace. Hours ago, it would have. Yesterday, it was a blessed thump she absorbed with her bare palm. Today, it filled her with dread.
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