Now she was ruined. . . .
Are you ruined, Juliet? He asked the question for the thousandth time. Perhaps by society's dictates she had indeed been compromised, but he simply could not imagine her spirit "ruined." He knew better than anyone how badly Stoddard had abused her. The near monthly slashes on her slender back and even the horrid looking hand were nothing compared to the fear put in her eyes. How he remembered her fear! Despite the terror of it, she had survived. Survived with her spirit. Because of his love she had survived. If she survived Stoddard's unearthly tortures perhaps she had survived this man, Black Garrett.
What to do, what to do? He could not, would not, abandon her, even if she was ruined. He loved her still, he loved her desperately. Being of age, he could marry her without permission, but then his father would withdraw his inheritance. It was the same old story. How could he support her? He'd have to get a menial job and they would be poor. . . . "But I don't care if we're poor," she told him a thousand times, no less. "We'd be together. Nothing else matters. . . ."
Juliet just didn't know what it was like to be poor. Neither did he, but at least he had the foresight to know he didn't want to find out. What could he do then? If only he had kept one of the hundreds of letters she had asked him to post to that Madame Gaston. He could have made arrangements with that lady for Juliet's care. Yet no, like a fool he had burned every last one of them, certain that after their marriage Juliet would want the aging French woman as a dependent in his household, thinking it best to hurt her then rather than later. If only he could remember her residence number!
Dear God, why, oh why, did this have to happen?
A half hour passed, a half hour in which he felt more than thought, felt everything all at once. He was filled with a profound impotent fury. At a complete loss and not knowing where to turn, groping for straws, he turned back to the letter. To his utter surprise, he discovered his father had some small mercy after all.
... I am not without an understanding of the need and inclinations of young men. Having been a young man myself, and having seen your two older brothers through these years, I understand you have an attachment to this young lady, however sorry this attachment is. I am willing to increase your stipend a small amount to provide the means for you to support her. Attached to this letter, you will find an address as well as an introductory note to a Mr. Badamn, who can help you make suitable arrangements for her. Needless to say, propriety demands this small matter be kept in the utmost confidence and secrecy—especially from your dear mother! We will not speak of it again.
Kyle rode up the shell-lined circular drive of London's finest inn, the Connaught. The famous inn bordered Hyde Park along the wide tree-shaded King's Highway in the heart of London. Surrounded by acres and acres of well-tended flower and sculpture gardens, the circular front of the five-story structure—one of the tallest in all of London—rose with all the distinction of its grand, hundred-year history as London's finest house. Two waiting grooms jumped up to take his mount, and he dismounted, handing over the reins.
Taking a deep breath of reluctance, Kyle slowly climbed the steps to the grand entrance. Once through the doors, two men wearing the gold-breasted coats and elaborate costumes of footmen greeted him. Ignoring their disparaging assessment of his appearance, Kyle handed over Garrett's card. With more irritation than amusement, he watched disapproval change to gracious servitude once the name Lord Garrett Ramon Van Ness was read. The man presented the card to the head butler, who in turn snapped his fingers with a pleased smile—as if the mere sight of one of his lordship's acquaintances was a cause for joy—and as if by magic, another bowing footman was produced to escort him.
Kyle followed the footman through wide, thick-carpeted halls lit by crystal chandeliers, passing into the famous Connaught Grill. White-clothed tables dotted the spacious hall, each crowned with an adornment of the finest silver and crystal. The familiar, civilized sound of gentlemen discussing the politics and business of the day filled the room. More than one curious gaze lifted to watch the improperly dressed gentleman escorted to the private room in back, a private room reserved for the most favored members of the world's most elite aristocracy, a room the king himself used. The footman opened the dark mahogany doors, bowed as he passed, and quietly shut the doors behind him.
Lord Garrett Ramon Van Ness occupied an entire floor of the inn, presently holding his own court in this private room of the grill as he dined. Upon Kyle's entrance, the gentleman seated at the table stopped the heated discussion of the ongoing battle. Garrett, Leif, and three other gentlemen—Garrett's personal agents— sat at a huge round mahogany table set squarely in the center of the room. The room seemed dark despite the crystal chandelier over the table and the four long candles in the center, darker still because of the landscape paintings on the wall. The meal was almost over, for cognac shone from the brandy snifters and a bountiful fruit and cheese tray sat on the table.
Greetings were exchanged as Garrett motioned for Kyle to take a seat. A motion of his hand bid the waiter to place glasses of water and cognac in front of him.
"Not glad tidings, I see."
"About as pleasant to hear as the wails of Hades," Kyle offered, as he pushed back his hair, averting Garrett's gaze.
Garrett's face remained impassive but his gaze said much. "But then I was not expecting pleasant news, Kyle. Just what did you discover?"
"That this Badamn he dealt with is little better than a . . . well, he's a landlord of sorts. He owns a number of tenements on east side, near Covent Gardens."
Leif swore in disbelief. "Jesus, he can't mean the Gardens? That cesspool of rats and thieves and aging whores — "
"Aye." Kyle paused, hesitating before saying the rest. "Speaking of whores, this Badamn has three houses there. The place the, ah, young man rented is above one of them. Seven goddamn shillings a week, Garrett, and the two-room flat is to be shared with a woman known as Manny, a woman herself kept by two different shoemakers, no servants and no windows, which," he sighed, "might not be so bad, considering the rubbish strewn about the place."
Once said the room fell silent. They all looked to Garrett for his reaction, one slow in coming. "Leif. . ."
"It would be over if you told her this—"
"Would it? Or would I—dear God-have to listen to her excuses for him? I have been known to court danger before but that is one risk I will not, cannot, take. That scene would put his blood on my hands."
Leif felt Garrett's struggle as his own and he sighed. "I can't believe it, but then it has traveled this far already. She is so innocent, like an angel trapped in hell-"
"Aye," Garrett knew the rest, for he thought of it so often. "So long abandoned and so badly abused, she knows nothing else; she expects little else. I curse her innocence and the profound goodness of her heart for keeping her ignorant."
"And may you live long enough to see it always protected."
Garrett swallowed his brandy whole and said, "Which I can only do by destroying him once and for all, if not in fact then at least in her mind. And let us do pray, my friends, that by so doing, I do not also destroy her, Juliet, the young lady with whom I've fallen so desperately in love."
A single lamp lit the spacious room, and two candles lit her reflection in the mirror over the vanity where Juliet sat. Garrett had insisted she accompany him to the Connaught, despite her protest that she stay on board until the arrangements had been made, for she dreaded the idea of being presented as his wife again. Yet he would not listen. After a whirlwind first glance of London,he brought her here.Now she sat surrounded by a wealth and opulence she never dreamed of, still uncomfortable within it, an opulence that extended to two maids and an entire set of rooms: a drawing room for company she did not have, a dressing room, and a bedroom, all decorated with rich, dark mahogany and attractive paintings, pale creams and peach damasks.
Wanting so to look pretty for the auspicious day, she spent all day indulging in the feminine vanities: bathi
ng and washing her hair, twisting it into a tight rope so it would lay straight and flat, then washing her blouse and frock. . . . Yet now as she stared at her reflection all she saw was the fear haunting her eyes. The same fear created an imaginary scene in her mind: Garrett, Leif, and herself waiting and waiting and waiting until finally Leif patted her on the back and said, " Tis for the best, lass." Like earth tossed on her casket, Garrett would say, "I told you he was no good, Juliet. Jesus, what a bloody waste of time. ..."
Like the fear in the nightmare, to endure that scene felt so much worse than death. Where had her faith fled to? Tomas would not abandon her now, he would not.
The candle flickered and leaped, illuminating the fear in her reflection. Panicked, she leaned forward and blew out the candles. The mirror went dark. An image emerged from the darkness, and for one frightened moment she thought she saw the rodent in the nightmare.
She was going mad, dear Lord . . . help me.
Sleep was a hard battle fought and won and only because she had not slept well, if at all, since the night Garrett finally agreed to give her the ehance for happiness by sending her back to Tomas. The battle ended after three long hours of tossing and turning, trapped in the endless cycle of trying to reassure herself the morrow would bring not just an ending but a beginning as well.
Much later she stirred and turned over, the queerest sensation prodding her consciousness. She was not alone in her rooms. She opened her eyes and sat up, bringing the covers with her.
Moonlight streamed through the thin mist outside, dimly lighting the darkened landscape of the room. All seemed quiet and still. A curtain lifted from the open window, sinking, drawn outside before rising again. Anxiously she searched each corner and nook, listening, her senses alerted to the presence of another until—
Until she saw the two red eyes suspended in space beneath the open window. The shape of a thing darker than night surrounded the shining eyes, staring back with a madman's blind fury. A scream caught in her throat. A surge of panic engulfed her, immobilizing her as the red eyes moved closer and closer. A leap put the creature on the bed.
"Oh, Tonali! My goodness, you scared me—"
Tonali could not be here! Tbnali had been left on the ship! But . . . but how—
The panther stalked toward her. With eyes made red with anger, he hissed and snarled. Terror pushed her back against the pillows. She grabbed his fur as he stood over her and he hissed again. Blood dripped from his mouth, splattering onto her face, and she screamed.
A blinding flash of light transformed the room. She lay on the boulder, the cold stone pressed against her naked flesh. The rodent appeared in the corner of her vision. Using all her strength, she tried to move but couldn't, she couldn't. She shot a terrified glance in the direction of the rodent, and when she saw it was made from Tomas's image, she screamed, loud and long.
Garrett appeared near her side.
"No! Nooo!" came as a choked cry, a desperate denial of what she was about to see. Garrett stood still save but to raise his hand. Tonali was created by this magic, the darkness growing and growing until the great cat leaped from his extended hand and onto the creature's back. He sank his teeth hard into its neck. Bright red blood spread across her vision and she screamed again—
Bathed in perspiration, she woke with a start. Breathless and panting, her terrified eyes encountered the scene at the foot of her bed and she gasped. With his hands on his hips, Garrett stood over the bed staring back at her. He looked as Tonali had, appearing only as a towering dark shape of a dream, his remarkable eyes shining with strange amusement.
For Garrett knew the nightmare she had witnessed.
She slowly shook her head as he came around the side of the bed, too terrified by this nightmare to do anything more than say, "No . . . Garrett — "
"Yes, love. Yes. I'll never let him have you. . . . Never."
"Twas only a dream! A dream!"
"Nay, not a dream ... a prophecy."
The torrent of her pounding blood sounded loud in her ears. Her senses heightened with unnatural intensity, though fear drained her strength and she could do nothing more than weakly shake her head as he lifted her up under her arms, so that she knelt on the bed before him. Held against his body, she felt each rise of his chest, the encasement of hard muscles above his hard, flat stomach, the threatening blade of his desire. "You are mine, Juliet. Mine."
The whispered pronouncement came with a blast of emotion. A hand caught her hair while the other held her still as he silenced her denial with the force of his lips. Her entire being rose to fight him, those words, the prophecy of that nightmare. Her clenched fists pushed against him with all her strength, but he might not have ever known as his mouth covered hers, demanding, his tongue sliding over her teeth before pushing through, and still she tried to fight—
Until the world burst into a sea of hot, shimmering colors and she was sinking, sinking, laid to the soft cushion of pillows as he came over her. He kept her trapped in his arms. The heat of his body came as a burning shock and her breaths raced, faster still as his muscled thigh pressed intimately between her legs, sending warm licks of flame rippling through her.
He drew back a bit to draw a gasping breath himself. "Nothing will separate us ... nothing," he said in a whisper as he reached down to pull her nightgown up over her hips and breasts and head; yet he left it gathered around her arms. The heat of his gaze followed the cool caress of night air and she whispered his name, an evocation or a plea, she couldn't know, as his warm, firm lips lightly grazed her flushed cheeks and closed eyes.
"God, girl, I need you ... I need you as I need the air I draw into my body, more . . . even more. Let me have you, love ... let me," he whispered against her ear, gently biting the sensitive lobe. A rush of shivers raced from the spot. Confused, still she tried to escape it, she turned her head into the loosened waves of her hair. Catching her chin, he offered her a deep sensuous kiss, deepening until she was damp and helpless, no longer struggling against the warm pressure of his body.
She couldn't struggle or fight him, his desire, though part of her mind was saying over and over again, no, this was not really happening . . . this could not be happening. Yet even that brief thought ceased altogether as he broke the kiss to let his lips slide to the arch of her throat, the palm of his hand rotating light as a feather over the rose tip of her breast. Chills exploded through her, her heart pounded in the depth of her being as he made her say his name over and over.
"I want you . . . God, how I want you girl ... I want to fill you, to dissolve your will beneath my own . . . always and forever," he whispered as she felt his mouth seek and find the other breast, rocking back and forth over the nipple, drawing hard until it grew taut and large. She threw her head back and forth and cried softly under the onslaught of whirling colors and sensations, all of them, the hard, waiting pressure of his body,hishandsliding overhersilken belly,moving lower and lower with slow circular movements until she was trembling and ablaze by turns, until she was hot and flushed and breathless, mindless with the warm pulsating pleasure he orchestrated.
In the dark hours of the night, the place where dreams and reality merge, he owned her will and made her his again, carrying her on the wings of wild, untamed passion. Wings that carried her to the very peak of ecstasy, where he watched as wave after wave of shimmering pleasure peaked and fell away, only to rise shimmering again, higher and higher until the ecstasy burst in one fiery explosion that carried him in a triumphant last victory.
She felt herself sinking then, sinking, teetering between oblivion and life, only vaguely aware of his lips on her forehead, a tender atonement or good-bye. The gown came over her love-soaked form. The great warmth left all at once, but his hand was entwined in hers and he said, "You were right after all. It was only a dream, Juliet, only a dream. . . ."
A dream ... A dream filling with the images of her uncle, the terror of those days and her mother crying over the broken chain of their hair. "Forgiv
e me my darling . . . forgive me. . . ." Tomas appeared to comfort her, and she started toward him but her legs wouldn't move. Tonali hissed and she looked down to see his tail wrapped around her feet like a chain. "I'll never let him have you. . . . Never ..."
Juliet woke to a cold, grey morning. She looked dazedly from one corner to the other in the quiet room. The curtains fluttered in the cool breeze. Her heart quickly escalated and her breathing quickened. "It was only a dream ... a dream." She wanted desperately to believe that. If only he had no magic that let him come in the dark dead of the night when she had no defense, not the will of the waking state or even the redemption of being able to accuse him. If only his will did not seem to change the very shape of reality. "I want you
. . . always and forever. . . ."
The knowledge made her tremble, and in her desperation she said his name over and over again. "Tomas . . . Tomas . . . Tomas," his name was her only reassurance, a reassurance paired with the thought that it would all be over. Today it would be over, over forever. She would never see Garrett again. Never, if she could just survive these next few hours. She thought of all she had been through, everything; her life ran before her in a quick succession of painful pictures. If she had survived this far, then she could survive the next few hours.
She rose shakily. Take a bath and get dressed, she gave herself the simple instructions as she moved through the room to the dressing room, stopping in front of the vanity glass. She stared at the tousled mess of her hair, the small marks on her flushed skin, but her horror came as her wide, frightened eyes rested their gaze on the wrinkled gown.
Where she saw small splattered spots of blood.
"A fag for his lordship!"
Garrett held up his hand and the footman stopped. "Nay."
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